


On The First Day

by tmelange



Series: A Series of Chance Encounters [1]
Category: Angel: the Series, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, Plotty, Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-02
Updated: 2011-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-20 23:16:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmelange/pseuds/tmelange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas Eve, a glass elevator and two horny immortals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written December 2000, updated November 2005.
> 
> Since this is just a snippet more or less, I thought you'd like to know something about the Universe that I am writing about. In this story, Angel has full control of his soul—he is no longer in danger of losing it by experiencing true happiness. Why not? Well, I'm operating under the assumption that the gypsy curse was superseded by the Powers That Be. In this Universe, Angel lost his soul, and Buffy sent him to hell. He was brought back from hell by the Powers to be their champion in accordance with the prophecy. The Powers are the ones that gave him his soul back, not the gypsy curse. When Angel arrived in Los Angeles, he assumed that all the old rules were in affect; that he was under the curse and not allowed to experience true happiness (read SEX). There was no way for him to know that the rules had changed without running the risk of becoming Angelus.
> 
> However, when Cordelia woke up in the hospital after being attacked by the demon trying to bring back Darla (end of season one), Angel was truly, truly happy to have her alive and well. He and Wesley suspected that the curse was defunct, but how were they to know for sure? They thought it better to be safe than sorry and continued to operate under the known guidelines.
> 
> But fate intervened. Angel, Cordelia and Wes went up against a demonic human slave ring. During the battle, Angel saw Cordelia killed. He was devastated and blamed himself for getting her involved in the demon hunting business and for allowing her to put herself in danger. But Gunn did not believe that Cordelia was dead. He investigated and found out that the demons have this special ability to project a hallucination of a person's death. He rescued Cordelia from their clutches before she was harmed. Of course, when Angel saw Cordelia alive and well for the first time, he experienced quite a few minutes of pure joy—after all, she's like a sister to him. Thus the myth was debunked. Angel and Wesley consulted an Oracle and Angel's new soul status was confirmed.
> 
> Of course, now Gunn and Cordelia are an item because—well, wouldn't you love the person who saved you from being a sex slave to a purple, pig-headed demon?
> 
> Maybe one day I'll write this back story. Until then . . . back to our regularly scheduled program—which is already in progress.

_Prologue_

That night is vividly etched upon my memory—still. Every glance, every smell, every feeling is with me now as if it had happened only yesterday. Even after all these hundreds of years, the memory of that night is exactly the same—a perfect reflection of the first time I laid eyes upon his face, the first time I kissed his lips and felt the earth tilt on its axis. It is the precious, perfect memory of the beginning of a love chiseled down to the bone of the soul's soul.

Often, as now, I have been asked to describe what happened—how an immortal man and a vampire fell in love, and why such a love has endured for more than eight centuries. I have always done so, relying heavily on vagarious imagery to convey the sharpness of every impression, though you know I am no poet. Often, I have quoted Hugo who seemed to have understood that night best: "La nuit augmentait sur mon ame ravie; Il ressemblait au lys que sa blancheur defend." _Night increased upon my delighted soul; He was like the lily whose whiteness protects._ And so it was and he was on that first night. Just so.

Before I begin, I must ask you: Do you believe in love at first sight? Do you believe that certain souls recognize each other; that they are fated to meet and to love, perhaps forever? I do. I know that you can fall in love the very first time your gaze comes to rest upon another person; that a simple glance can capture your heart like a butterfly on the head of a pin. I know because it happened to me, and I live in the joy of such a love every day. Believe me when I tell you that certain souls are tethered, one to the other, by an ethereal, gossamer thread that draws them together inexorably like the rush of the river to the sea. Certainly, if you were to ask me now, after all this time, I would say that I knew I loved him from the very first moment I saw him, though it took me some inconsequential number of days to admit it. But that is the beauty of hindsight—the light of truth shines brightly in retrospect.

I understand if you don't believe me—it is a common fallacy that you have to know a person before you can be truly in love. In fact, loving someone and knowing someone are two distinctly different things that often have little to do with one another. Yes, you can grow to love a person and love that person long and well. But anyone who has ever loved passionately and at first sight knows that you can love a complete stranger, wildly, unreservedly, without knowing a single thing about him and for no reason at all—simply because you do. After all, true love is a rush of sensations: a wild wind; the scent of summer; the sound of birds singing. The intellect should have no part of it.

Truthfully, I have known other loves in my life; believed myself in love with other people at other times before this. But the realization of true love—a fated love, a love beyond all reason—is like the blaze of the noontime sun as measured against the flickering light of a candle. The two are incomparable. Everything that has gone before—all the love and all the pain—descended upon me only in preparation. Everything before was but the twilight of my life, and this, the dawn.

How did I arrive at this place, so truly intertwined with another as to be inseparable from him? I have told our story many times over the years to friends and acquaintances, those who have wondered at our odd relationship, and although all of the mortals in this story have long passed from this world, still it brings me joy to tell it.

It all began with our beloved Cordelia, as many things did in those days, and the first of her infamous Christmas parties at her apartment in Los Angeles—in the year 2000.

And let me preface it all by telling you that the moon and stars were the gifts he gave to me that night to light the dark tapestry of my soul.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter One_

 _"On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me - A partridge in a pear tree. / On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me - Two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree. / On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me - Three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree. / On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me - Four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree. / On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me - FIVE GOLDEN RINGS,_

 _Four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves  
And a partridge in a pear tree...."  
_  
The guests were singing loudly. They were crowded around the sofa and leaning on the walls. They were talking and laughing and singing—general merriment was the order of the evening at Cordelia's Christmas party. Her apartment was decorated fabulously—if she did say so herself—with all the ordinary holiday staples: There were the poinsettias, the blinking lights, the dancing Santa and, of course, an elaborately decked out Christmas tree. All kinds of people had shown up, too, and quite a few of the guests were attired in appropriate holiday gear. Many of the women were wearing Santa hats or reindeer ears with bells and even a few of the men were gamely dressed as elves. Everyone seemed to be having a great time—everyone…except the party's only guest vampire.

Angel, Cordelia's friend, employer and favorite bloodsucker with a soul, lurked in the shadows of the hallway connecting the living room to the bathroom. He watched in fear as many of the other guests joined in the caroling, and looked around desperately for something—some avenue of escape. Any minute now, Cordelia was going to insist that he join in the singing. He just knew it! Christmas parties. He hated Christmas parties! He hated singing. He hated listening to people singing Christmas songs at Christmas parties. And there was no way he was going to be cajoled into joining in—no way! Not by anyone—not even for Cordelia. He had promised her that he would come to her party even though she had blasted him for being a wet blanket after the last party she had thrown at her apartment. But she hadn't said anything about him singing. Angel slowly eased further back into the shadows trying to remain clear of Cordelia's radar.

But he hadn't counted on Phantom Dennis—the traitor. Suddenly, and without warning, the lights flared on in the hallway—brilliant lights, bright lights—attracting Cordelia's immediate attention and chasing the shadows away like a flight of birds. Cordelia fixed a steely gaze on him, and thanks to the untimely interference of a meddling ghost with too much time on his hands, Angel stood exposed, like a flasher, on the periphery of the revelry. Cordelia slowly sashayed across the room, past the women wearing the Santa hats and the men in tights, stopping only briefly to grab something from under the Christmas tree.

"Payback's a bitch," Angel growled at the air in what he hoped was the direction of the ghost. "If you're not careful you're going to net yourself one big exorcism for the holidays…." Angel trailed off in irritation as he watched Cordelia make her way towards him like impending doom. He sighed melodramatically, with a large dose of frustration. It was no use threatening a ghost anyway. Who knew whether Phantom Dennis was actually still around to be insulted or had moved off to torture his next victim?

Then suddenly—reprieve! Angel watched as Gunn grabbed Cordelia around the waist and spun her around and into a deep and sweetly intimate kiss. They were going at it in front of a room full of people, as if they were the only two lovebirds in the world. Angel watched his friends and shook his head in amazement. He still could not get over the budding relationship between the two people he would have said were polar opposites just two months ago. He would never have imagined that Cordelia and Gunn would have anything in common. Surprisingly, Cordelia seemed to be having the time of her life trying to make Gunn over into some kinder, gentler version, and Gunn seemed to love the fact that Cordelia cared enough about him to try, however futile her efforts might prove to be. Most of the time they argued, but it was nights like these, when the two of them were together, with Gunn wearing the clothes that Cordelia obviously picked out for him and Cordelia keeping a jealous eye on his every movement that the obvious love and admiration between the two of them was like a bright light, white and pure. Angel was envious but happy for them. They deserved to be happy. Most people only have one life to live.

Cordelia hadn't even mentioned Gunn's lack of monetary assets once since the whole relationship had started—what did _that_ say? Angel wasn't sure what the correct colloquial term was nowadays but he thought it was safe to say that Cordelia was sprung. Gunn must have put the whammy on her in bed or something….

"Excuse me."

A young woman was trying to get by Angel, angling to move past him into the hallway and to the bathroom. He stepped aside courteously but the woman still had problems getting by. She rubbed her body up against his—unnecessarily, Angel thought, since there was now more than enough room for her to pass unhindered through the foyer. Then, without warning . . . she was kissing him! Stunned, Angel responded automatically in a kind of knee-jerk fashion—he kissed backed.

"Mistletoe," she said breathlessly when she came up for air.

Angel looked up in confusion and, sure enough, there hung the offensive little plant—the Christmas version of the Venus Flytrap.

 _In the State of Denmark, there was the odor of decay . . ._

Angel could not believe it: First, Phantom Dennis, and now, Cordelia. Was everyone plotting against him? "Did Cordelia put you up to this?" Angel sputtered at the girl indignantly.

"Well, yes, but . . ."

He knew it! Ever since they had figured out that he wasn’t in danger of losing his soul, Cordelia had been fostering off every one of her ditsy friends on him—and for some reason they were all blond! It was driving Angel crazy. Cordelia just didn’t believe that he was not interested in getting what she described as 'a little nookie'.

And anyway, he liked brunettes too….

Angel squashed that thought hurriedly and returned his attention to the young lady who had been steadily talking since his accusation of complicity. He hadn't heard a word of her conversation but he didn’t want to offend the girl when she had only been following Cordelia's orders. "Thank you," he said to her as gently as possible while extricating his body from her roving hands. "That was very . . . nice . . . if unexpected." Angel reached up and snatched the offending mistletoe off its perch.

"Hey, do you want to dance?" the girl asked him hopefully.

"I don't dance." Angel was apologetic but he was NOT going to dance with the girl just to make her feel better. He was adverse to making a fool of himself. Very adverse. He was a vampire for crying out loud. He had an image to protect….

"That's cool," the girl said hurriedly. "How about we go get something to eat from the kitchen?"

Angel interrupted her before she could offer any further suggestions or make the situation any more awkward. "I don't eat," he said quickly. It was only after she had stormed away with a sniff and a killing look like a poison dagger that Angel realized what he had said and how it had sounded. He considered following the girl and apologizing but before he could put that thought into action, Cordelia caught up to him.

"Angel, what are you doing over here by yourself?" Cordelia asked proprietarily as she grabbed his arm and propelled him into the center of the room.

Angel groaned silently. Perhaps if he just bit her a little she'd go away, he mused. He wasn't exactly sure when he had lost control of Cordelia. Maybe he never had control of her in the first place. Maybe their initial relationship—the one where he was the employer and she the employee—had been a big farce, or even a dream. Angel was not sure what had happened or when, but somewhere along the line he had acquired a mother—or at the very least an older sister. If the thought hadn't been so scary, he would have laughed at his predicament.

"Cordelia, I—"

"Angel, I don't want to hear it," she interrupted. "You promised to try to have a good time tonight. You've been here—what? An hour? You've been in lonesome vampire mode the entire time. Every time I look your way you are lurking, lurking, lurking. Someone should grab a camera and shoot one of those old black and white horror films—you know, the ones with no sound and just a creepy fellow stalking everyone. They wouldn't even have to put out a casting call. Just come to my party. Shoot the whole picture here. They can rename my building _Nosferatu,_ and you could be the star lurker—"

"Okay, Cordy, I get it." Angel suppressed an urge to put a hand over her mouth. He figured his best course of action was to give in—completely. Sometimes retreat was the better part of valor, he knew. He could socialize a little to make Cordelia happy. How hard could it be? Angel shuddered at the prospect of making small talk with any of the multitude of people stuffed into the apartment. He wondered absently where, and more importantly when, Cordelia had met all of these strange individuals. Angel had been under the impression that she worked most of the time. So much for that theory.

"I'm sorry Cordelia," he offered meekly. "I'll try harder. Really." Angel gave her his most sincere look.

Cordelia studied him impassively. "You know, Angel, I only want you to be happy…"

 _Oh no!_ Angel groaned. _Here comes the guilt trip…._

"…and it's just that after my most recent brush with DEATH, I got to thinking that I'd hate to go to the hereafter knowing that you were without anyone to take care of you. You know, us demon hunters tend to die YOUNG. Now that we know that you can do the wild thing—so to speak—without any fangy repercussions, I think you should try to be more sociable." Cordelia's tone was reasonable, as if she were making a case for drinking milk instead of soda, but Angel could see the glint of determination in her eyes.

"Cordelia, it's not that easy." Angel paused to gather his thoughts. What best to say? How best to explain so that a young girl like Cordelia could understand? No one realized how much he wanted to reach out, to breach the walls he had built up over decades to protect himself. No one understood just how much he wanted to feel the sunlight on his face. Love was just like sunlight, so very, very much like sunlight. It burned—but even so, all he really wanted to do was reach out and touch that flame. Unfortunately, that type of life was not for him. He tried to explain his unique situation to his friend.

"Just because I'm not in danger of losing my soul doesn't mean that I want to run around looking for women to sleep with. I'm still a vampire. My life is still dangerous and complicated. It would be stupid of me to bring a woman into all that." His nature, his vampire's nature was ever-present. Vampires were killers, hunters by design. Just because he couldn't lose his soul didn't mean that he couldn't lose himself in darkness. "Besides, Cordy," he continued, "it's not like I have anything in common with most women."

Angel was getting depressed just talking about this subject. He wished Cordelia and everybody else would simply leave it alone. He realized his friends were just concerned about him—they wanted to see him happy now that it was possible—but it wasn't that easy. The one person who could love him—the vampire with a soul—no longer existed. He had lost his chance with her—with Buffy. Did everyone think that he hadn't considered returning to Sunnydale once he had realized that his soul was under his own control again?

However, Angel was familiar with that old trap. Buffy was no longer the same person who had loved him, and, hell, he wasn't the same vampire who had loved her, really. A lot had changed in two years. There were no second chances for love for a person like him—and Angel certainly wasn't going to complicate his life by pretending to be a normal human being.

Imagine him dating! The idea was ludicrous. What woman wouldn't run in the other direction when she saw his demon face? What woman wouldn't turn away in disgust when she saw him drink blood? There was no one who could understand what he had to go through every day just to keep everything moving in the right direction. No one.

Maybe someday, if the prophecy proved true, he would regain his humanity. Maybe, someday, he would meet the person who would love everything about him and all that he had been and was yet to be. He could only wish for such a person and lock those wishes in little phantom boxes in the bottom of his unbeating heart. Right now, he needed to worry about the present, worry about working towards his redemption, but if wishes were dollars he'd be a rich man.

"Angel, stay with me here," Cordelia snapped her fingers twice in front of his face. "Let's not fall into one of your infamous broods. It's Christmas!" Cordelia whipped a small, brightly wrapped box with a huge bow from behind her back. "For you," she said dramatically, "from me, Gunn and Wesley."

"Cordelia, I . . ." Angel was embarrassed, "I didn't get you guys anything…."

Cordelia smiled confidently. "Sure you did."

"I did?"

"You did. And you were very generous, too."

"I was?" Angel was confused and he had a sinking feeling that he wasn't going to like Cordelia's explanation.

"Definitely."

"What did I get you?" Angel asked slowly. He was afraid. He was very afraid.

"The greatest gift of all," Cordelia stated expansively. "Money."

"Money," Angel deadpanned in stunned amazement. He had thought she would say gloves or a scarf or a pair of earrings, even, but money? How much money?

"Right," she agreed, "Christmas slash year end bonus with a pay deferential for a hazardous work environment and immoderate hours."

"How kind of me…." Angel waited for his stomach to settle. "How much?"

"Don't worry, Angel," Cordelia patted his check comfortingly, "I made sure you could afford it."

"Wesley?" Angel asked tentatively.

"He's very grateful," Cordelia assured him.

"Gunn?"

"Took care of him, too."

Angel suppressed a desire to call the bank. He sighed and looked at Cordelia with resignation. Again he wondered forlornly how this whole Los Angeles situation had spiraled out of control. Cordelia, his very own Florence Nightingale—he had to love her.

"Open your gift," she prompted him.

Angel shook the box and held it up to his ear. It was a small four-by-four box with a pretty purple bow. It fit in the palm of his hand nicely. _Hmmm. It jingles,_ he thought to himself absently. He slowly untied the bow and broke the tape on one end while Cordelia looked on in amusement.

Inside the box were two . . . bracelets. They were made of an unusual alloy—Angel couldn't immediately place it. White gold? Some type of mixed silver? Angel picked up one of the unusual pieces in fascination. The two bracelets were a matched set—identical in every respect. Angel turned one over and inspected it closely.

"Hope you like them."

Angel suspected that there was more to this gift than was immediately obvious. "Where did you get these?" he asked her suspiciously.

"Remember that traveling demon sales guy? The blue one with the big forehead and the terrible fashion sense? Tried to sell you that magic happy dust?" Angel nodded his head. "Well, he had these bracelets that he had picked up in some demon dimension. We thought they'd be perfect for you."

 _She bought them from a demon?_ "What are they supposed to do?" Angel asked her cautiously. He could only imagine what type of magic device Cordelia would think he needed.

"Well, that's the great thing. They're supposed to help you find your soul mate. You put one on and when you meet someone that you’re compatible with, the stones change color. Apparently, the color ranges from a pale blue to a deep purple, depending upon how good the person is for you. When you meet your soul mate, your one true love, the bracelet is supposed to get hot and the stone is supposed to turn the deepest royal purple. And get this," Cordelia was excited now, clearly enamored of the bracelet's attributes, "after you've found your true love, you give that person the other bracelet. Then, whenever either of you is in trouble, the other person's bracelet will heat up in warning. Cool, isn't it?" She seemed very satisfied with herself.

"Can you get your money back?" Angel asked skeptically as he examined the stones on both pieces of jewelry.

Cordelia hit him over the head with something--he didn't know what—that she had apparently been holding for just such a purpose.

"You can't return it! It's a gift!" she said indignantly.

Angel hastened to assure her that he loved the gift. "It's not that I don't like them, Cordy. I love the bracelets. It's just that . . . how do you know that they work? I was just wondering if we could return them if they don't work."

"Well, we'll just have to find out." Cordelia started pulling on his arm, trying to drag him further into the living room. "I have a friend. Her name is Lisa. She thinks you're cute…."

 _Cute?_ Angel started to back peddle furiously. "Cordelia, wait! I love the bracelets," he opened the clasp of one of them and slipped it on his wrist, "but I don't really want to meet anybody new tonight. I promise I'll meet your friend some other time. Soon," he added hurriedly.

"Fine," Cordelia said indignantly. "You can lead a vampire to a pool of blood but you can't make him drink…." She flipped a hand at him dismissively, turned and flounced off in a huff, leaving Angel standing in the middle of the living room awkwardly.

He retreated to his comfortable observation post in the hallway and flicked off the light, scowling at the air threateningly in case Phantom Dennis got any more bright ideas. He slipped the second bracelet into his pocket.

He remained comfortably obscured and un-accosted for all of thirty seconds.

"Angel, my main man."

Angel sighed inaudibly as Wesley invaded his space with a flurry of awkward arm and leg movements more natural to an ostrich. He was wildly attired in what Angel supposed was his Christmas outfit, with a Santa hat sitting askew on the top of his head. Angel looked at Wesley's terribly unfashionable get-up and concluded that a little self-expression could be a very dangerous thing.

"Wesley." Angel resigned himself to dealing with Wesley's special personality.

"You still here?" Wesley asked.

"Apparently," Angel answered with just the faintest trace of sarcasm.

"Well, my friend of few words, have a drink." Wesley shoved a large plastic cup filled with a creamy beige substance that Angel assumed was eggnog into his hand. Angel tried to pass the cup back to Wesley. "I don't want any," he said distastefully.

"I know it's not your drink of choice," and Wesley blinked one eye conspiratorially, causing Angel to roll _his_ eyes in disgust, "but I insist. Maybe it will put you in the Christmas spirit," Wesley added jovially.

Angel looked at Wesley closely and decided that the man was drunk. He figured that maybe if he just took the drink, Wesley would simply disappear, like a bad smell. He took a small sip from the cup in the hope that Wesley would be appeased. Surprisingly, the eggnog wasn't half bad. Angel sniffed at it and took another tentative sip.

"She likes me," Wesley whispered in his ear.

Angel jumped at Wesley's close proximity to his face. "Who?" Angel asked, returning his attention to his friend.

"That hottie. Over there." Wesley nodded his head in the direction of a brunette who was busy talking to a group of similarly endowed women. "No, don't look!" he admonished Angel fretfully.

"Wes," Angel said. "If you don't want me to look, why are you telling me this?" Angel took another sip of his delightful eggnog.

"Because that's what compatriots do," Wesley explained with all of the exaggerated seriousness of the newly inebriated. "They stand around, mano a mano, and talk about the prospects. Now that you're back on the market, we can go out on the hunt together, so to speak." Wesley slung an arm around his shoulders.

Angel blinked. He could picture it: Wesley on the hunt . . . for women. Angel burst out laughing and then took another sip of his drink to cover the lapse. "I'm sorry Wesley," he hurried to explain, "It's just . . . never mind." Angel didn't want to hurt Wesley's feelings—sometimes it was just best to say nothing at all. Resigning himself to Wesley's continued presence, Angel took another sip of his drink.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Two_

 _Nog._ They were out of the nog. Angel looked sadly at the shiny bottom of the punch bowl. _What a tragedy of epic proportions!_ He pounded Wesley on the back and thought that he would head towards the kitchen. Maybe there would be more nog in there.

Angel was none too steady on his feet. The earth was moving, his head was spinning, and he felt a terrible urge to take a piss. He changed directions and stumbled towards the bathroom instead, benefiting from a vague feeling that it was probably not a good idea to take a piss in the middle of the living room.

He pushed past people as if everyone around him were moving in slow motion and finally made it to the hallway. He found a door, turned the knob and barreled through it in relief. His forward momentum took him about twelve paces before he realized that he wasn't in the bathroom—that in fact, he had exited the apartment and was now in the outer foyer of the building. He heard the apartment door close behind him with finality.

But Angel was happy. Ecstatic even. Thoughts of the bathroom had temporarily escaped his immediate attention. He breathed in the night air and thought suddenly that he would go for a drive. Why and where did not concern him. He was much too happy to worry about inconsequential details.

He stumbled and ran into a wall or two. He stood uncertainly in the building parking lot wondering where he had left his car. He did have a car . . . didn't he? The lot was deserted—there was no one to ask for help. Angel giggled and stumbled to the left and then to the right, looking . . . What was he looking for again?

After some serious thinking, he remembered what he was looking for and spied his vehicle parked in a corner space with its top down, waiting patiently for him. He was ecstatic at having found his car because he was afraid he had lost it. He searched his pockets comically for the keys, found them, dropped them a few times, hit his head on the car door only twice and settled himself behind the wheel. After six tries, he succeeded in getting the key into the ignition and starting the car.

Then he peeled out of the parking space like a bat out of hell.

"What's wrong with my car?" Angel asked himself in confusion as the car jerked back and forth like a popcorn machine. His progress was being impeded. Angel wanted to go fast, feel the wind against his face. Awful grinding noises emanated from the car's gears as Angel tried to get his mind to coordinate the activities of the hand that was on the stick shift and the foot that was on the pedal. After much trouble, he succeeded in getting the car to move forward at a steady pace. He was even able to pick up speed.

He sped along joyously—down Wilshire Boulevard and towards downtown Los Angeles. The big buildings loomed in the distance, and Angel could pick out the mirrored tubular construction of Promenade Towers. He turned on Flower Street in the direction of that impressive piece of real estate. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he remembered that Promenade had an observation deck on the roof, forty seven floors up, and a really cool glass elevator on the outside of the building connecting the two barrel-shaped towers. His foot pressed down on the accelerator. He thought that a ride on that elevator to the observation deck would be really cool.

 _Piss!_ The thought and the feeling assaulted him all of a sudden, and he jerked the wheel sharply, slamming on the breaks to pull his car over. He was in the deserted garment district, about two miles from Promenade Towers. He turned his car off and jumped out over the car door to find a place to relieve himself. The concrete sidewalk came up to meet him and Angel found himself on his back, looking dazedly at the stars. He giggled and got up more carefully.

Walking some small distance, he spied an alley that looked perfect for his needs. He rushed to the back of it and hurried to undo his pants. He released a steady stream of yellow liquid with a hiccup of relief.

"Well, what do we have here?"

Angel turned his head with little concern and watched as three men seemed to materialize out of thin air. He blinked. Perhaps he was hallucinating.

"What do you think you're doing?" one of the men called out pugnaciously.

Angel found the question funny, hilarious even. He could not suppress the laughter that seemed to want to bubble up and overflow. "What am I doing? Well, let's see. I'm standing here holding my penis, trying to take a piss." Angel had turned halfway towards his interrogators and waggled his penis at them in emphasis.

"This is our area of town."

Angel sniffed the air. _Oh,_ he thought, _they're vampires. Of course!_ "And a nice area of town it is," he agreed magnanimously.

"You know what we do with stray vampires who wander into our area?"

 _Stray vampires! Are stray vampires related to stray dogs?_ Angel found the thought hysterical and burst into a fit of laughter that ended with a couple of hiccups. "Why don't you tell me!" he said finally when he could catch his breath. "What do you do with stray vampires who wander into your area?"

"We take their car and send them to hell!"

Angel was nonplused. These guys seemed so serious! "Let me finish taking a piss first." Angel waved a hand at them dismissively and redirected his attention to finishing his personal business. He sighed in relief and shrugged himself back into his pants and zipped up.

"Now, what was it you were saying?" he asked his new friends in confusion. Somewhere in the last fifteen seconds he had lost his train of thought.

"We're going to kill you!"

"Why would you want to do that?" Now Angel was really confused. He thought they were getting along so well!

"What, are you stupid?" one of them hollered as the other two tried to circle around and behind him. "Are you on drugs? What is wrong with you?" another asked as he approached Angel slowly from the side.

"Drugs?" Angel was amazed, "Of course not! I never touch the stuff. I had this really good eggnog though…."

"Enough with the bullshit!" the lead vampire hollered as they attacked.

All of a sudden, Angel was lying facedown in a smelly pile of trash. Everything was spinning and for the life of him he couldn't wrap his mind around what was going on. Were these guys mad at him? Why? He was pulled out of the trash, hauled up by his hair and thrown across the alley like a doll. He heard his shoulder snap.

Okay, now he suspected something was wrong. "Hey guys—" he tried but was promptly kicked in the ribs like an old stray dog. Angel coughed up blood. "Wait—" he tried again and struggled to get up. One of the vampires cocked a leg to knock him back to the ground but Angel grabbed it and sent him flying in the other direction.

 _Wow!_ Angel was amazed at his own strength. He made it to his feet briefly before he was knocked across the alley by a flying kick to the chest. He felt something else crack.

Angel realized dazedly that he was not having a good time. He noticed as he wiped blood from his mouth that one of his assailants had jumped into his car. His car! He got up, stumbling, and watched the other two move towards him like roaches towards a piece of bread. They seemed cautious of him—though Angel didn't know why. There was two of them and only one of him. Two . . . one . . . Angel decided to test a theory. He growled at them viciously and feigned in their direction. They jumped back like rabbits. Angel almost laughed out loud at the ridiculous expression on their faces. He suppressed a giggle and growled, "Grrrr!" as he lunged at them again. Then he turned and ran out of the alley as fast as his long legs could carry him.

Angel ran down the street, and it was quite a few minutes before he heard any sounds of pursuit. He picked up speed. The wind whipped through his hair and he thought absently that he was having fun again. He turned around, running backwards, and yelled out at his pursuers, "Nah, Nah, Na Nah, Nah, you can't catch me!" and promptly busted his ass on a curb.

As he lay on the pavement, staring up at the stars, he thought dazedly that he might have broken his ankle. _Bummer._

Quickly, he struggled to get up. Angel didn't want to let his pursuers catch up. What was the fun in that? He took off at a running limp, stoutly ignoring the pain that shot through his leg every time he stepped down on his foot and the sharp needles of agony that assailed his side and chest, and made towards the Promenade Towers. The shiny buildings loomed in the distance like a sanctuary. Somehow, he realized that if he could just make it to the Towers where there was likely other people going about their ordinary lives, the pursuit would fall off. He did not know why he knew it, but he did.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Three_

Angel burst through the glass doors of the building. He slowed to a walk and looked around quickly. No one. Not a guard at the reception desk, not a person anywhere. Angel looked behind him. He could see his pursuers stopped just outside the building, looking in, waiting to see who was around and what Angel would do next. Angel could tell the exact moment they realized that the lobby seemed to be eerily deserted. He watched them make a slow approach to the door.

The chime of a bell interrupted Angel's hazy contemplation of his next course of action, and he turned his head in the direction of the sound and found that the glass elevator was arriving in the lobby. The elevator ran along the outer face of the building and its glass tube was what separated Tower A from Tower B. The entranceway to the elevator bank was on the other side of the lobby and was partially obscured by some potted palm trees. With a last look towards his pursuers, Angel limped towards the elevator at a clip.

He reached the elevator doors just in time to see them close . . . and open again suddenly as he stopped in front of them, out of breath from his excursions.

 _And the world paused . . . then resumed its turning._

"Trouble?" A hand reached out to steady him as he stumbled into the glass box. The doors clapped closed behind him with all the finality of fate. He was safe.

Disoriented, confused, Angel felt a flush of heat. He looked down at the hand resting on his arm in consternation, then up at the owner of the hand. It was a man, a tall man with a disarmingly charming smile—a smile that made Angel want to smile back in welcome, especially in his inebriated state. Their eyes met, gazes locked onto each other like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, and Angel found himself swimming against the current in a green-flecked ocean that touched the horizon and went on forever. He could say nothing. He was drowning. He had no words.

The glass elevator began its ascent. Starlight poured into the elevator through the translucent walls as the box spiraled upwards, reaching, flying dizzyingly towards the sky. The moon pointed her white finger straight through the glass and pierced Angel's soul. He would have cried out—if he had been able to form the words. Angel looked at the elevator's other occupant—a man, yes, but his gender mattered not at all—and saw him with eyes that devoured every inch of exposed skin.

Angel's wrist—the bracelet—it burned his skin mercilessly, but only like fire, only like lava spewing from a volcano and touching his wrist just there. Spinning, his head was spinning, but he reached out decisively, inexorably, for what his heart told him he wanted. Perhaps, had he been in full command of his senses, he would have been able to resist such uncharacteristic behavior—but probably not.

"Hey!" he heard the man exclaim, but the sound came from a great a distance and the objection carried little weight with Angel.

"What are you doing…?" The man was trying to fend him off. Not to hurt him, Angel could tell, but to cause him to desist. What could he say that would make the man understand? What could he do?

Angel reached out a hand and cupped the man's face, stepped to him closely, like an old friend, and whispered quietly, "Shhh . . . Please." He brought his head down and kissed lips that were as soft as goose feathers and tasted like sugared milk. He teased them open—they willingly opened—and lightly captured the darting tongue. This one kiss halted all objections, in the same way that the song of one bird can halt the silence before the dawn.

That first kiss—it seemed to last forever to Angel. It went on and on and on like a shaft of light shot through the universe. It marked the end of his other, wayward life and the beginning of a new existence. As Angel began again and inhaled his first breath, he breathed in only the air that the other exhaled. That air was sweet, rarefied, and Angel, even though impaired, wanted to breathe in as much of it as he could possibly take, until his lungs expanded and exploded, until his heart began to beat again.

Hands were in his hair, gentle fingers that entwined themselves there and felt like heaven. Bodies strained against each other. The rock hardness of like pressed to like created a frenzy of movement—of grinding, thrusting, insistent movement. Coat—Angel pushed it off the man's shoulders and it fell with a clang to the floor. Neck—Angel kissed and licked and sucked, bit gently, very gently. Blood should not mar such perfection. Hands—they roamed, unbuttoning shirts, traveling across backs and chests, squeezing firm buttocks and massaging the taut hardness of sex urgently.

Angel paused only briefly. He needed to know just one thing—the man's name. Angel wanted everything in his new world to have a name, to be called something special. Whispering hot and low, he breathed, "Your name?" in the man's ear. It was not a mundane request—it was more like an invocation, a prayer to some superior being, and he was granted a blessing in return for his heartfelt entreaty.

"Methos."

The earth seem to move at the naming—seemed to sway back and forth violently like the waves upon a stormy sea. The sky lightened, then flickered and went black. The stars shone brightly as the moon flared in stark relief against a suddenly enveloping night sky. Angel felt Methos stiffen and try to pull back, but Angel renewed his efforts, his hands insistent, his mouth hot and devouring. He was not to be denied, and his efforts were rewarded with groans and the sweet sense of capitulation. He unbuttoned the front of Methos' jeans.

Under the stare of a silver moon, Angel knelt like an acolyte at an altar and pleasured Methos as if it were the only reason for his existence. The salty-sweet taste of pre-cum was like nectar, and Angel drank—sucking and licking ardently. The hands pulling at his hair became insistent. Angel wrapped a hand around the shaft, his mouth sucked at the bottom and around the delicate balls while stroking a fierce rhythm with a sticky hand from head to stem.

At just the right moment, just _then,_ Angel wrapped his entire starving mouth around Methos' pulsing cock, his hands firmly gripping buttocks, and opened his throat wide—allowing Methos to use his mouth frantically and with no encumbrances. Angel could feel the tension, churning and swollen, in the back of his throat and knew that there were only moments left before the torrent.

Methos threw his head back and groaned loudly in ecstasy, arching his back in delight. The sound was like music and roared in Angel's ears like the drums of paradise. Angel was there—in paradise. He drank the milk of that place, lapped it up, greedy as a starving beggar.

When the wild rush of sensations had died down to a faint whisper, Angel reached up and pulled a standing Methos down onto the floor, until they were both kneeling and facing each other and Angel could claim those sweet lips once again.

They kissed forever, kneeling face to face in a darkened elevator, with the night sky for a blanket.

And drowning, Angel was drowned—his senses, his soul, his reason—all submerged in water like the remains of a ship which had smashed itself against the rocks. His last conscious remembrance was of the twilight caressing him and holding him closer than a lover.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Four_

Strange . . . and more strange. Something was different. Angel opened his eyes slowly, cautiously. It was dark and he realized that he was lying on his back. Angel looked up and could see the stars and the moon. He could see the stars . . . _and the moon?_

"What...?" He struggled to sit up. Where was he? _What was going on?_ A restraining hand materialized out of nowhere and settled lightly on his shoulder, gently trying to keep him in a reclining position. The hand burned there like a cinder from a fire, through Angel's clothes, through everything, and a quiet voice wafted through the confusion.

"Take it easy."

Angel brushed the hand off, sat up quickly and turned towards the sound. "Who—?" he began awkwardly. There was a man sitting next to him, startling Angel with his proximity. With a quick assessing glance, Angel took in all the salient information before his eyes darted away from the man's face, abashed. Sharp features, prominent nose, dark brown hair—enticingly tousled in such a way that Angel's fingers itched to smooth it down—skin, lily white and practically glowing in the starlight. Long, inviting neck—more than inviting. The man looked young, maybe twenty-five, but smelled . . . old. Some scent of uniqueness or antiquity clung to him oddly. The man's eyes were dark, colored with twilight shadows, but the corners were crinkled with amusement. A wry half-smile played across his lips. Angel realized suddenly, with the acute embarrassment of the anti-social, that he had been lying with his head in the man's lap. In his lap! Like a puppy!

 _What in the world?_ His initial confusion was total, but then it all came rushing back to him. Just like a bird grasps, abruptly, how to fly, Angel remembered everything— _everything_ —with an alarming, spiraling sense of time running backwards.

"Oh my GOD!" Angel was horrified and struggled to get up off the floor. A disturbing impression of a soothing hand stroking his hair, his face, assailed him. _Had this man done that? To him? And had he…?_

Angel panicked as thoughts and images most delicious flickered like motion picture stills in front of his eyes.

Getting up off the floor was no mean feat. Angel's ankle hurt like hell—well, not quite like hell but it did hurt a hell of a lot. His ribs hurt, too. One maybe two were probably broken. Angel remembered his confrontation with the vampires in the alley. His car! His CAR! _Shit!_

Subconsciously, his mind skidded away from more recent— _and humiliating_ —events as he placed as much distance between himself and the man sitting on the floor as was possible in a roughly eighteen-by-eighteen foot elevator. Angel limped to the opposite wall of glass and looked out. _Dammit!_ What had he done? _What was in that damn eggnog?_

"You know, you should take it easy. I think your ankle is broken. You're a little bit worse for wear, though I must admit, you seem to be in a hell of a lot better condition than I thought at first."

The man's voice was deep, pleasant, and richly accented. _English, like Wesley,_ Angel thought absently. He glanced at the man—Methos?—quickly, out of the corners of his eyes.

Angel's mind refused to settle itself. His thoughts jumped from place to place erratically, with something akin to irrational fear or, at the very least, skittishness. Certainly, he found it very difficult to look directly at the man. Instead, he kept his back turned and gazed outward, towards the sky, as if he were thinking deep thoughts. Really, he could barely think at all. Angel stuck his hands deep in his pockets to cover his agitation. Should he apologize? Act like nothing happened? Perhaps he could feign memory loss . . . Would that work? Angel wasn't exactly sure what to do but he realized he had to say something or risk seeming stupid. He threw the first thing that came to mind over a shoulder.

"You smell funny," he said, then kicked himself. _Damn!_ He hadn't meant that comment the way it sounded. The man didn't _smell_ funny. He just smelled funny.

"Gee, thanks," the man said dryly.

"No, I didn't mean—" Angel shook his head and decided suddenly that an explanation of what he meant was impossible. So he switched subjects hastily, hoping that the man would just let the weird comment go by unremarked. Angel tried instead, "I thought I felt everything move . . ."

"Earthquake," the man responded. "And I bet you thought it was just me."

Angel turned his head quickly, looking towards the man in surprise at the veiled reference to their earlier assignation. Their gazes met and locked with what seemed to Angel to be an inaudible crash of cymbals. Was he the only one who heard the racket? It was like a marching band at a football game or at a parade. It was so loud! How could anyone not hear it? Resignedly, Angel turned his whole body towards the man—obviously, they were going to have to talk about it. Angel felt as if he were turning towards a firing squad.

At this first opportunity for a full and frank appraisal, Angel could not resist dragging his eyes across the man's body and noting every feature—he simply could not stop his traitorous eyes from roving. They hungrily noted the man's casual recline against the wall, the way he had one leg up, knee pointing to the ceiling, with an arm draped across it and the other leg splayed out straight and comfortable. They noticed the way the man's jeans bunched up slightly at the crotch and the way the fingers of one hand were drumming lightly on his thigh.

The man was handsome and, more than that, his smile was like a line of poetry adorning his face. His eyes flashed like diamonds and his skin had an almost ethereal luminescence in the moonlight that made him look fey, or at the very least like an angel waiting casually for the clarion call from heaven.

Angel took note of everything: the darkness, the night sky, the moon and the stars—it all conspired to pull him outside of himself. The strangest thing of all was the way the night sky seemed to provide a canvas upon which the man was painted as if in relief. The transparent glass was a negligible barrier between Methos and the stars and the moon hung behind him like a piece of broken plate.

 _Would you like a cup of starlight—or a slice of moon?  
Yes, please. I'll take two._

As Angel stared, standing motionless and bemused, a bizarre, fluttering feeling erupted in the pit of his stomach. Angel felt his face flush with embarrassment but he gamely met and held the man's eyes in mute acknowledgment of what had transpired between them earlier. Strangely, the man did not seem to share Angel's embarrassment. In fact, he seemed amused. Angel got the distinct impression that he was trying hard to refrain from laughing at Angel's discomfort.

There were questions that needed to be asked, things that needed to be explained, but first, Angel wanted to know one thing. "Are you sure that I'm not dreaming?" he asked the man slowly. It was always a good idea to establish the ground rules up front when you dealt regularly, as Angel did, in a world of the supernatural.

"Sure that you're not dreaming? No. Sure that I'm not dreaming? Yes."

"I'm wide awake?" _Shit!_ "What happened exactly?" Angel asked brusquely. He thought, perhaps, if he could take control of the situation, assert himself, so to speak, and stop acting like a lovesick puppy, he could reduce the level of embarrassment for everyone involved.

"What happened in general or what happened to you specifically?"

Did the man always answer a question with a question? It was annoying, and Angel allowed the annoyance to seep in and smother his traitorous senses.  
"Both," he answered with a touch of impatience. He turned his back on the man as if he were exasperated--but it was really to hide his erection. Angel shifted uncomfortably, trying to find more room in jeans that were suddenly much too tight.

"Generally," the man responded nonchalantly, "we are stuck in a lovely glass elevator between the twenty-second and the twenty-third floor as a result of an earthquake. That same earthquake is the reason why I'm sitting here and you're standing there in relative darkness. Though the stars and the sky are very beautiful, don't you think? Quite romantic . . ."

Angel felt his face flush. He tried to hide his discomfort behind a gruff tone. "Could you just tell me what happened and leave off the commentary?" Angel glanced at the man over his shoulder tentatively.

"Sure," the man responded casually with a grin that was just a hairsbreadth short of lascivious.

So why did Angel feel that he was being laughed at?

"Like I said," the man continued calmly, "there was an earthquake. Must have knocked out the power. I called on the emergency phone but I got no response. Now that could mean anything—from there being an emergency of epic proportions in one of the buildings somewhere to everyone being off on holiday because it's Christmas. In any event, we have no choice but to sit tight. I'm sure someone will spring us eventually."

"Is there any way we can get ourselves out?" Angel asked hopefully, looking around at their private version of a gilded cage.

"Not unless you can fly," the man responded glibly. Angel scowled at him in annoyance, but the man ignored him and continued with his narrative. "Short and sweet, that's what is going on generally. What's going on with you specifically may take me a little longer to explain." The man grinned and raised an eyebrow speculatively. Angel opened his mouth to say . . . something, but then closed it again with a click. What could he say?

"Apparently, you were on your way from a . . . Christmas party?" the man guessed. Angel nodded his head in assent. "Where you had a wee bit too much of what you called 'that wonderful nog'. On your way from point A to point B, you must have gotten yourself into some trouble with the unsavory element in the area as someone took it upon themselves to ruff you up quite a bit. In your haste to escape, you ran into this building and into this elevator, which was occupied by yours truly. The doors closed, and, somehow, you got it into your head that I was a gingerbread man—you tried to eat me. You succeeded."

The man was almost laughing openly now, and Angel was mortified. If there had been a two-by-two box on the floor, he would have tried to crawl into it to hide, but there was no escape available from the man's unrelenting mirth.

"The earthquake happened," he continued. "We got stuck in here. You had your way with me. Then, of course, you passed out. You've been out for about," he checked his watch, "two hours."

 _Two hours!_ That would mean—

"What time is it?" Angel asked abruptly.

"Three forty-five."

 _Shit!_ He had to get out of this damn glass elevator before the sun came up! He had two hours at the most. _Two hours!_ Angel started pacing, walking back and forth to the extent that it was possible in the confines of the elevator. He studied the entire situation, looking for the most likely avenue of escape.

The elevator was shaped hexagonally. There was one large wall opposite the elevator doors and two shorter walls forming a V to the left and to the right. The five walls were glass and the double elevator doors were metal. The elevator ran on a track affixed to the outside of the twin-barreled building. The track served as the divider between the two towers. Most distressingly, the ceiling was transparent too. Angel could see an emergency hatch on the roof that would put a person outside on top of the elevator. From there, he supposed, a person could try to jump up and catch the small ledge that lipped the bottom of the double doors on the next floor up—but what good would that do? Angel seriously doubted that there would be a way to get those doors to open, even with his extraordinary strength. Doors that led from the inside of a building directly into thin air absent an elevator car would hardly be inconsiderately secured.

Angel tested his ankle, put his entire weight on it, trying to determine how reliable it would be. It hurt—it was swollen and probably broken—but pain was an old friend. Angel dismissed it from his mind. He needed to get up on top of the elevator to see if there was another way into the safety of the building, but he was going to need some help. He looked at his co-inhabitant speculatively.

"I need you to boost me up."

"Boost you up? Up where?" the man asked in surprise without moving a muscle to comply.

Angel gritted his teeth. _Did the man always ask so many damn questions?_

"Do you always answer a question with a question?" Angel muttered irritably.

"What do you think?"

"Fine." Angel sighed in resignation. He did not have time for this. "I need to get out of this elevator. Right now. I want to get on the roof and see if there's a way to get back into the building—perhaps through the doors on the next level up. I want to go through that emergency hatch." Angel pointed up.

The man looked at Angel with both eyebrows raised in amazement. "Are you joking? We are in an exterior elevator twenty-three floors up and you want to play Batman by climbing on the roof. Why in the world would I help you do that? So, no," the man shrugged a shoulder, "I will not boost you up."

 _No?_ Angel looked at him in barely concealed consternation. He was not used to people telling him no so bluntly. Usually, Angel could scare most people into doing anything he wanted. Well, except Cordelia—but she didn't count. And Gunn—Gunn didn't scare easily either. Neither did Buffy, nor Giles . . . nor Wesley, for that matter. Angel became concerned. Wasn't he scary anymore? The infuriating man who had stared this mini-crisis stared at him impassively.

"Listen, Methos, I know what I'm doing. Just give me a hand will you?"

Methos winced. "Umm . . .yes . . . about that. I don't actually go around by that name. Most people just call me Adam."

"Adam?"

"Yes, Adam. And, as a matter of fact, I would really appreciate it if you never referred to me as Methos."

"Never?"

"Never. Unless we're somewhere private." Methos grinned, and Angel felt the heat rise in his face again. He turned away quickly.

"Yeah, sure. Adam. Whatever. Could you help me out now, please? I really do know what I'm doing." Angel turned back around and rested a pleading gaze on his irritating co-occupant. After a few moments of disconcerting scrutiny, Angel watched Methos rise up off the floor gracefully.

And suddenly, the elevator was like a box—a coffin, even—with very little room to maneuver and absolutely no room to escape. Methos was almost as tall as Angel and his face-to-face presence was imposing. Angel felt a rush of heat that caused him to break into a sweat. He felt engulfed, as if by a raging inferno, but instead of retreating, he inexplicably took a step forward into the heart of the blaze. He stared into Methos' eyes, entranced, and, for what seemed like forever, there was nothing but silence. Then, Angel reached out and gripped both of Methos' arms with a vague, undefined intention to pull the man closer. There was something he needed to say, to do, and it was crucial—as crucial as life or death.

"Are you always this amorous with all the strange men you meet in elevators?" Methos asked. Angel jumped back and let Methos go as if doused by cold water. _What in the world was wrong with him?_ He was never this out of control! He was acting like a horny teenager with his first crush!

"I'm sorry," Angel mumbled. "I didn't mean . . ." Angel wanted to apologize. His behavior was inappropriate. Ridiculous even. He looked down at his shoes. He needed some mental distance to continue.

Methos interrupted him gently. "I don't mind, you know. I was just wondering if it was me or if it was you."

Angel looked up quickly. _Wait. Did he mean...?_

Angel was flooded with excitement as if someone had injected an intoxicant into his normally calm veins. "It's you," Angel answered seriously, his breath catching in his throat. He took two small steps forward. He read encouragement in Methos' eyes. Angel whispered, "You," and gently, hesitatingly, kissed the lips that had captivated him past bearing. "You," he whispered and kissed them again. "You." _Three times, you, and only you._

"Good." Methos reached up and trailed a finger across the line of Angel's jaw. "I hoped that that was the case. Couldn't be sure though." Methos smiled. "You were rather plastered."

That finger found its way around the ridge of the ear until all of the fingers of that hand had entwined themselves in Angel's hair. Methos gently pulled his head closer, captured his mouth fiercely and wrapped him in an intimate embrace—an embrace that Angel was sure could only be felt, never described.


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter Five_

Angel carefully lowered himself back into the elevator, dropping to the floor on one foot. It didn't look good, and he was beginning to worry. There was absolutely no way for him to get back into the building from the top of the elevator. The doors on the level above were impossible to pry open absent some sort of tool, even with his strength. There was no way for him to climb down the side of the building, or up, for that matter. The only way off the elevator was straight down, and that option was really no option at all.

He could jump . . . Angel flinched at the thought. If he jumped, he would break every bone in his body. Of course, the jump would not kill him permanently, but it would totally incapacitate him. It would probably take him days just to revive and it certainly would be six months at least before he could walk again. He remembered how long it had taken Spike to regain the use of his legs after that spinal cord injury. Angel sighed inaudibly. The recuperative issue was only relevant if he even made it that far. If he jumped, and if he were very, very lucky, someone would find his broken body before the sun came up and secure him someplace dark, but how likely was that?

It was more likely someone would find his body after a length of time. The police would be called and an accident scene established. He would lie there, exposed, awaiting the emergency medical personnel. The most likely scenario ended with him as victim of the sun, either during the waiting or during the trip to the coroner's office. There just wasn't enough time. Dawn was fast approaching—the terrible, terrible dawn that prowled.

If he were really unlucky, he could land on top of the carport. There really wasn't enough room on the top of the elevator to get a good running start. Wouldn't that be just his luck? Sprawled on the roof of the carport like a sunbather on a pool deck. Angel knew that if he jumped, he would undoubtedly lay dead, shattered on the concrete twenty-two floors down until the sun came up. THEN he would be dusted. If only he had more time! He was sure he could figure something out if he just had more . . .

"See anything interesting up there?" Methos asked disingenuously. He had resumed his seated position on the floor and was looking up at Angel innocently, in feigned curiosity. Angel gazed at him irritably for a long moment, then plopped down on the floor next to him. He unconsciously mimicked the man's repose, reaching out a hand and lightly brushing his arm. Angel found the touch comforting and the silly half-smile that Methos fastened on him made Angel momentarily forget his troubles.

Angel twisted his face into a mask of mock sternness. "No, nothing. And don't say I told you so." He shook a finger at Methos in emphasis.

"But I did." Methos smirked.

"I know you did, and I admit you were right. I just had to be sure. I need to figure out a way to get out of this damn elevator."

"And I thought you liked my company."

"That's not it. I love being here—with you. It's just that . . ." _How to explain?_ Angel was strangely reluctant to reveal his true nature—reluctant to get into the whole vampire thing with Methos because he was too familiar with the fear and loathing that was part and parcel of his odd existence. So much of the night had been perfect—so very perfect. Even now, stars filled the elevator, splashed lightly on the air. It was Christmas. Even vampires wished for things on Christmas. Angel wanted this one night of peace, this one night of love. He had wished for it and that wish had been granted. He had been given this night and even with its double edge, Angel wanted to savor its full flavor, especially if it was going to be his last night. Most especially if that were to be so.

"I just need to get out of this elevator," Angel repeated. He got up off the floor in agitation and walked to the elevator control panel. He opened the little metal door to the compartment that housed the emergency phone and picked it up. Nothing. _Dammit!_

"What time is it?" Angel looked at Methos expectantly. Methos' eyes bored into him in consternation and, for a moment, Angel thought he was going to say something, but he seemed to think better of it.

"It's five fifteen."

 _Five fifteen!_ Angel felt as if he was trapped in car that had been driven off a bridge and into the sea. It was as if his whole world was slowly filling up with water. There was so much he wanted. He wanted out of this situation. He wanted to take Methos some place quiet and safe and spend the rest of the night getting to know him better, but most of all, he wanted more time.

His phone! He had forgotten about his cell phone! Perhaps he could call for help. He looked around for his coat and spied it bunched up with Methos' coat in a corner. He rushed to pick it up with a burgeoning sense of jubilation.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to call 911. Maybe someone can get us out of here. Damn! How does this thing work?"

Methos raised an eyebrow dubiously at Angel's proclamation. "I don't think 911 is going to be much help."

"Why not?" _Ah hah!_ Angel had managed to turn the phone on. "911 handles emergencies. This is an emergency. Someone should be able to do something…." The line was ringing.

"Yes, but—"

Angel waved a hand at him to hush. Methos' eyebrows shot up another level.

"Hi. I'm in a bit of trouble and could use some help. I'm stuck in an elevator at Promenade Towers . . . The glass elevator . . . Yeah, that one . . . No . . . No . . . No . . . Well, no, but . . . but . . . Wait a minute! Aren't you supposed to call someone? … What am I supposed to do? … No … No . . . but . . . Hello? ... _Hello?"_

"She hung up on me!" Angel looked at Methos indignantly.

"I was trying to tell you—"

Angel interrupted, his indignation spilling over, "She said that unless someone was injured and in danger of dying we would just have to wait here until the power was restored to the electrical grid for this area." Angel started to pace back and forth in agitation. "She said that part of a freeway and a bunch of buildings had collapsed and that there was no emergency personnel that could be spared for a non life-threatening situation. She wouldn't even listen to reason. I couldn't get a word in edgewise. Then she hung up on me!"

Methos nodded in sympathy. "Yes, well, I figured you'd get that type of response depending upon how much damage the earthquake had caused around town. Why don't you just relax. Sit." Methos grabbed Angel's arm and pulled him down onto the floor.

Angel sat down cross-legged and stared at his phone. There had to be something else he could do. Then suddenly, an idea came to him. _Cordelia!_ He could call Cordelia or Wesley and have them drive over to the Towers. Then when Angel jumped off the elevator one of them could grab his body and stash it until he revived! It was an excellent idea. Angel was shocked he hadn't thought of it sooner.

"What time is it?" he asked Methos excitedly.

"Fifteen minutes after the last time you asked me. Why don't we stop playing Beat the Clock? You've been acting like a chicken without a head about being stuck in this elevator. Why don't you tell me what the problem is?" Methos had pulled Angel to him so that Angel was sitting between his legs. Methos wrapped his arms around him and squeezed comfortingly. He set his chin on Angel's shoulder.

Angel leaned back into the embrace, his back snuggled firmly to Methos' stomach. He could felt the tickle of breath blowing by his left ear. Then Methos put lips to the flesh of his neck and the touching was like fire against his skin.

Methos nibbled at his neck, softly, sensuously. Angel arched his back, thought and sensations warring for his attention like opposing armies. If only they could stay like this forever. He could feel the hardness of Methos' cock pressed against his tailbone and the heat of long legs encircling him on either side. They fit together like a song and its melody. The sweetness of the moment was poignant—so poignant it hurt. Angel sighed and disentangled himself somewhat from his amorous companion.

"Hold that thought," he said to Methos quietly. "I have to make a call." He dialed Cordelia's number. The phone rang for an interminable length of time. Finally, Angel heard a click and a series of loud thuds. He gripped the phone a little tighter in anticipation. "Hello," he said into the receiver. "Hello," he tried again. No answer. "Cordelia . . ." Nothing. Angel hit the end button and redialed the number. He got a busy signal. _Damn!_ He dialed Wesley's number. The phone rang and rang but there was no answer. He tried Cordelia and Wesley's cell phones. No answer. He even tried to page Gunn. Gunn's paging service indicated that he had taken off for the holidays and was not answering numeric pages. His voice message said, "Busy getting busy. Merry Christmas and leave a message." _Great._

In frustration, Angel threw the phone at the wall, pulled his legs to his chest and buried his head under his arms. He took some small pleasure in hearing the phone thud against the floor.

"What time is it?" he asked quietly without lifting his head.

"Five thirty."

So, he had thirty minutes, more or less. Maybe the sun would rise at six thirteen today or, perhaps, six twenty two. Whatever. There was nothing left that Angel could think to do to get himself out of his current situation, and he was tired. So very tired! His composure was daunted by the terrible threat of a dawn that was creeping upon him inexorably, like a clinging vine.

Angel raised his head slowly and turned around so that he was sitting facing Methos. At least he had his beautiful stranger and a few tantalizing moments stretched out to eternity. At least he had someone to wait with him as he sat listening for the twelve irreparable strokes of the bell. "I wish we had more time," he said, looking at Methos intently.

"We have time—plenty of time. All the time in the world." Methos looked at him seriously, took his hand and held it tightly. Angel could read the confusion in his eyes and he knew that he owed the man an explanation. But how could Angel tell him that they really had no time at all? That they were existing, suspended in air, clinging to what might have been like the last few grains of sand clinging to the inside of an hourglass. Soon, very soon, all the sand will have run out.

Angel realized that Methos had been incredibly patient, merely observing his odd behavior without comment. He knew that their whole situation had escalated exponentially, like a runaway car accelerating from zero to eighty miles per hour in one point two seconds. He knew that he and Methos had made no promises, that really, he didn’t owe Methos the truth by conventional standards, but Angel also knew that their meeting was auspicious and fateful and so very desired. He wanted there to be truth between them—because there was already love.

Still, the thought of revealing his true nature was daunting, and the words would not come. How to explain the essentials of a dead man's life—the trembling hope, the implacable pain and the wonder, the newfound wonder of soul-searing delight? Angel didn’t think he could bear to see Methos pull away from him in fear or revulsion. Not now, not during what was to be his last thirty minutes on earth.

But how fair would it be to let Methos watch him crumble into dust with no warning?

"I have something for you," Angel said. There was something that he wanted Methos to have even if he later turned away in terror or disgust. In fact, it belonged to him.

"Really. What?" Methos' confusion had changed to curiosity. Angel could not help smiling at the anticipation on his face.

Angel reached in his pocket and pulled out the bracelet—the gift from Cordelia and the twin to the one he wore. He looked at the stones that adorned the intricate design, the deep royal purple confirming what he already knew. It was funny that the bracelets should work so perfectly after all.

"This." He held it out to Methos.

"It's beautiful." Methos took the bracelet and examined it closely. He was clearly surprised. "Thank you," he said seriously. The giving and the accepting of the gift was like a vow intrinsically defined by actions. Methos leaned over and captured Angel's mouth lightly, trailing his tongue around Angel's lips until he sighed and opened his mouth for more. Methos sealed that silent vow with a kiss.

After a few minutes, a few interminable minutes of bliss, Methos pulled back. When Angel opened his eyes he found Methos staring at him intently, speculatively. "Is there something you want to tell me?" he asked gently.

"Yes," Angel said quietly, "but first, let me put it on." Angel took the bracelet and opened the clasp. He took Methos' left hand in his own and gazed at him intently for a moment. There was so much to say. _Words were insufficient._ If this had been some other time, some other place, maybe he would have been able to say all the things that were in his heart. He would have said that he thought that he was in love. He would have said that he was in love and would have asked Methos if he could love him in return. He would have done anything to convince Methos that a vampire with a soul was worthy of his love.

But the two of them were in an unrelenting place, and all those words of love were an unfair burden for a dead man to place on the heart of the living. Angel would not be false, refused to be false, even if the words burned his tongue and cried out to be spoken. He let his eyes and his actions say all the things that were imprudent for him to voice. He took Methos' hand, kissed the palm lightly, kissed the fingers softly and closed the bracelet around his wrist.

"It's exactly like yours," Methos noted quietly as he brought his hand up to cup Angel's face.

Angel nodded his head in agreement. "Exactly."

"That's funny. It's kind of warm…. It seems to be getting warmer. Does it react to body heat or something?" Methos had returned his attention to the bracelet, trying to assuage his curiosity.

 _Oh._ Angel had forgotten about that attribute. He guessed that the bracelet did work perfectly. He was in trouble, dire trouble, and Cordelia had said that the other bracelet would heat up in warning whenever he was in trouble.

Angel sighed. "Umm . . . about that." Angel pulled out his wallet and passed Methos a business card. "When you get out of this elevator I want you to call that number. Ask to speak to Cordelia. Tell her what happened here. She'll explain to you about the bracelets."

"When I get out of this elevator? What are you talking about? We're both going to get out of here. Seriously. We are. Don't worry. There's nothing wrong with the elevator _per se._ Eventually the electricity will get restored or someone will realize that we're stuck in here. We may end up hungry and a little worse for wear but we will get out sooner or later." Methos pulled Angel into an impromptu embrace as if he were comforting a small child who was convinced that monsters were hiding in the closet.

"I want you to relax," he added. "Perhaps I can think of something for us to do to while away the time…" Methos grinned suggestively.

"But that's just it," Angel responded slowly. "I don't have any time left."

Methos looked at him, and his gaze was inscrutable. "Medical condition?" he asked slowly.

"Something like that," Angel responded miserably. He really didn't want to do this.

"Tell me."

Angel took a deep breath. "When the sun rises . . . When the sun rises . . ." Bile seemed to choke the air in his throat. He could not get the words out. He tried again, this time with more resolve. "When the sun comes up, it will turn me to dust. You see, actually, I'm a vampire."

Methos exploded into laughter. Angel blinked in shock. The last thing he had expected was laughter.

"Right," Methos said gleefully. "And I'm a five thousand year-old man." He shook his head in amazement. "You had me really worried there for a moment. You're crazy. A vampire of all things."

"I'm a vampire," Angel said softly.

"I'm a vampire, " he said more loudly.

He had condemned himself. He had no need to see condemnation in anyone else's eyes. He gave his demon free reign and changed.

"I'm a vampire!" he yelled and attacked, knocking Methos to the floor, pinning him there, and bringing his fangs viciously to the vein in his neck. He felt Methos struggle, vaguely, as if from a distance. It was only the realization that Methos had stopped struggling that gave him pause—a hairsbreadth away from sinking his fangs into Methos' long, beautiful neck.

Suddenly, Angel realized what he was about to do and it appalled him to the depths of his heart, to the depths of his soul. Anyone would think him an animal. _Anyone!_ And they would be right. He flung Methos away from him and threw himself into the corner at the far side of the elevator. The sun had yet to rise. How was it that he already felt like dust?

He watched Methos rise and brush himself off, watched as he walked over and knelt down. He reached out a hand and started to say something.

"Don't," Angel said fiercely.

"Don't what?" Methos said gently as he sat down in front of him. "Let me see your face."

Slowly, carefully, Methos ran his hands over the ridges that marked Angel's face as that of a vampire. "I knew there was something strange about you."

"I'm a vampire," Angel said again, unconsciously leaning into Methos' soothing exploration of his demon face.

"But not an ordinary vampire," Methos responded surely.

"I have a soul."

"So that's what I see." Methos leaned in closely and placed a kiss lightly on Angel's lips. "I see the beauty of your soul when I look into your eyes."

Angel looked at Methos tentatively, returned the kiss automatically. He could not believe Methos would want to associate with someone like him. Suspiciously, he said, "I can't turn you into a vampire. If that's your angle." Angel allowed his face to change back to its human semblance.

"You don't know how true that is," Methos said off-handedly. He sat down next to Angel and captured his hand in a firm clasp of interwoven fingers. "I have no interest in being a vampire. Trust me."

"I'm sorry," Angel said slowly. He was staring out at the night sky. Any minute now it was going to start to get lighter.

"Sorry for what?"

"For keeping this from you. For treating my nature like a secret that I could somehow hide."

"Yes, well, if secrets were dollar bills, I'd be rich," Methos said shortly. He jumped up from the floor decisively. Looking down at Angel, he asked, "So you have until the sun comes up?" Angel nodded his head. "And then what? Do you automatically go poof?"

"No," Angel answered tiredly. "I can cover myself with a coat or something for a short amount of time. But there is no permanent cover in this elevator. The light will flood this glass box from all directions. And at twenty-two floors up, I'm too close to the sky. I'll only last a short amount of time." Angel paused. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"Stop apologizing," Methos said brusquely. "It's not your fault that you're a vampire. Get up. I need you to help me and to trust me."

"Trust you…? Sure. About what?"

"Give me a leg up. I want to take a look out on the roof."

"I've already done that. There's nothing—"

"Just trust me," Methos said, cutting him off. "Let me look."

Angel got up off the floor skeptically. He didn't know what Methos wanted to do, and he was hesitant to let him engage in activities that were dangerous and would foster a false hope. If Angel could not find a way off this elevator, what would Methos be able to do? But he figured that Methos was a grown man and should be allowed to take a look if he wanted to. Reluctantly, Angel held out his hands to give Methos a leg up.

Methos looked momentarily at his coat lying on the floor, shook his head as if disregarding an idea, and then pulled his sweater over his head and tied it around his waist. After making these odd preparations, he stepped into Angel's cupped hands and was boosted up to the roof.

"Be careful," Angel called out uneasily.

Methos disappeared for a moment. He reappeared suddenly and crouched at the opening in the roof. He looked down on Angel, and Angel had the fanciful impression that Methos was an angel looking down on him from heaven. The night sky framed him, cradled him in its embrace. Methos' skin and eyes seemed to glow ethereally. It was like looking up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

"Listen," Methos called out, "I'm going to try something. Trust me and don't panic. It'll be over before you know it."

"What?" Angel responded. He was beginning to worry. Some niggling premonition took root in the pit of his stomach. "What are you talking about? Come back down here!" he called out. "Right now!"

"No, listen to me. I'm going to find someone to get you out of here. I'm immortal."

 _Immortal?_ Angel thought in shock. Immortal? What did that mean? Had the man lost his mind?

"This won't kill me permanently. I'll be fine," Methos explained as Angel stood, frozen in shock and growing alarm. "Just don't panic. Cover yourself with the coats. I'll get back in time. I promise."

And with that, Methos jumped off the roof.

"NO!"

Angel ran to the front glass wall and watched in horror as Methos fell; watched him fall out of the sky like Icarus must have fallen as the wax melted and the feathers disintegrated off of his makeshift wings. Angel watched until he could not see him anymore. Then slowly, he sank to the floor, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes. When had he started crying? It must have been a sudden thing—as sudden as jumping off of an elevator suspended twenty-two floors in the air.


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter Six_

Little by little, the capricious night left him behind. The sky was emptied of stars and lightened slowly, imperceptibly. Pastel ribbons of color became noticeable and streaked the sky faintly—first in watery blues, then blushing pinks. It was very beautiful, and most terrible, and Angel sat on the floor of the elevator watching night surrender to day with the fatalistic fascination of the recently bereft or the irrevocably condemned. He sat and counted all the colors of the twilight sky, a sky full of an almost mythological horror, and listened distractedly as the hordes of hell seemed to call out to him by name.

 _He didn't want to die._

He realized he was not alive in the traditional sense. He was already dead—he knew that. But his un-life was sweet. He had not realized how sweet until just now when it was all about to be taken from him again. He would not have given it up lightly, if he had a choice. And Methos. What of Methos? Angel didn’t understand what had just happened. _Immortal?_ He looked around. He was alone in the elevator, as alone as he had ever been over the course of his existence. Had he been dreaming? Perhaps he had been alone the entire time and his mind had simply been playing tricks on him. Perhaps Methos had been a figment of his imagination, like the ghost of a Christmas that was never to be. Perhaps even he did not really exist and someone else was dreaming all of this….

He got up off the floor slowly. Obviously, he had not been dreaming. There was Methos' coat, there the open hatch to the roof. He stood in the center of the elevator uncertainly and used the back of his sleeve to dry his face. Methos had said he was immortal. But how immortal? Angel guessed that immortal meant immortal. _Right?_ Perhaps Methos really would be okay. Perhaps he was not just crazy and had not just jumped, inexplicably, to his death.

Angel didn't know what to hope for, didn't know whether he had any hope left. He walked over to Methos' coat and picked it up.

It was oddly heavy. Feeling around carefully, Angel realized that there was a sword concealed in a long sheath lining the inside of the coat. He pulled it out. It was beautiful, and Angel hefted it in amazement. What was Methos doing with a sword?

Strangely, finding the sword had steadied Angel. A sword was a very unusual thing for a regular person to be carrying. The fact that Methos had such a beautiful and obviously priceless sword secreted in his coat lent credence to his claim of immortality. The thought was a balm to Angel's abused spirit. He took solace in the thought that even if he was going to be dusted shortly, Methos might be okay. Angel had no hope at all that Methos would be able to secure help in such a short amount of time. If Methos was somehow immortal that was one thing, but he wasn't God, and getting Angel out of the elevator in time would take a miracle.

He put the sword back in its place inside the coat, set it on the floor carefully and walked back over to the wall to look outside. He pressed his face against the cold glass. It had been, maybe, twenty minutes since Methos had jumped from the roof. The sun would be peeking over the horizon any minute now. A stubborn mist blurred Angel's vision, or perhaps, it was just sentimentality. It was that time of morning, right before the breaking of dawn, when everything seemed to recede and run together, that time of the very early morn when the pale light of daybreak has the fineness of sand.

In this hour of anguish and uncertain light, Angel pondered his best course of action. There was much to be said for going out like a man—in standing on his feet in defiance of the vicious sun—instead of cowering in a corner covered by coats in a vain effort to forestall the unavoidable. But Methos had asked him to keep covered, to try to hold out as long as possible, and Angel could not bring himself to disregard that request, even if it was just prolonging the inevitable.

His skin began to smoke as the sun crested the horizon.

Angel grabbed his coat and Methos' coat, covered himself hurriedly and crouched on the floor with his back against the elevator doors. He crouched there for some indefinite amount of time, smeared with indignity and bathed in hopelessness.

The phone rang.

 _The phone?_ In surprise, Angel tried to determine the source of the ringing. It was a cell phone. Methos' cell phone. Angel carefully extricated it from a pocket in the coat while trying to keep his skin from the rays of the slowly rising sun.

"Hello...?" Angel said into the receiver. He felt like he was a character in an episode of _The Twilight Zone._ Any minute now he expected Rod Sterling's voice to announce, "There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man…." He wondered what would happen next. Nothing would surprise him in the least.

"How are you doing up there," came the soft reply.

 _Methos!_ Angel's heart skipped a beat. Clearly, it wasn't true that his heart did not beat. It had stuttered, just now. It had expanded, just now. His heart beat and was full to bursting with love and excitement. Clearly, some misinformation had been circulated about vampires. He would have to speak to Wesley about it. Maybe call Giles, too. Hope and expectation took root in the soil of his soul and blossomed.

"Methos."

"Got it right on the first try. Keeping covered?"

"What...?" Angel stopped. There was a loud grinding noise. He peeked out from under the coats. The elevator lights suddenly flickered on.

"Methos . . ."

The elevator gave a small lurch and started to descend.

"I'm here. Don't worry. It will only be a moment more."

The elevator glided smoothly to a halt. Startled, Angel did not have enough time to acclimate to his sudden change of circumstance. The elevator doors opened and since he was leaning on them for support, he fell out of the elevator and onto the floor of the lobby in a confused amalgamation of limbs and of coats.

"I see what you mean Mr. Pierson," some unidentified person whispered conspiratorially. Angel peaked cautiously out from under the coats, carefully gauging his position and relative exposure to the sun. He was in luck. There were no windows in this part of the lobby by the elevator. Since the elevator doors had closed there was only the artificial lights illuminating the area. Angel sat up. He saw Methos— _Methos!_ —and a maintenance man.

Methos was nodding at the man deprecatingly. "Um, yes. George, this is my cousin . . ." He gestured towards Angel.

"Angel." Angel supplied his name automatically, realizing with a pervasive sense of irony that Methos had never asked him for his name—and he had never offered it.

"Yes . . . Angel. The one I was telling you about." Methos grinned and passed the maintenance man the cell phone that Methos had borrowed from him to call up to Angel in the elevator. He placed an arm around George's shoulders. "Claustrophobia," Methos whispered dramatically in the man's ear, his voice rich with implications, "and hysteria." He took a finger and twirled it in a circle by his head. "You know how it is, George. Crazy relations…."

Angel fumed, pressed the end button on Methos' cell phone and stuck it in a pocket.

"I know exactly what you mean Mr. Pierson. My mother-in-law is one batty broad. I get stuck digging her out of trouble all the time. I'm just glad I could help you out."

"George, you have been a godsend. I don't know what my cousin would have done if he had been stuck in that elevator any longer. It might have sent him right over the edge. See how he was? Hiding under his coat? That's always the first sign. You know, he's in town to see the doctors and I would hate to have him relapse . . . he had been making so much progress lately." Methos pulled his wallet out of his pants pocket and passed George a hundred dollar bill. The man's face broke into a grin.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Pierson. You're very generous. I hope your cousin gets well soon."

Angel felt like he was invisible.

"Thank you, George." Methos patted the man on the back.

"Anything for you, Mr. Pierson. Merry Christmas." George started walking off.

"Same to you, George," Methos returned lightly.

Angel watched the man disappear around a corner. He turned to Methos, grabbed him suddenly by the arms and pressed him up against the wall.

"Don't you ever do anything like that again!" he said fiercely. The vision of Methos falling from the roof of the elevator was still with him—he didn't think he would ever forget it—even though Methos was standing in front of him and was obviously fine, but Angel could smell blood. Methos reeked of it. Angel shook him for emphasis. "Especially not for me."

"If not for you, then who?" Methos said quietly. He was looking at Angel intently, a grin teasing the corners of his mouth. Angel thought he could swim in that gaze. "There is no one else," he added seriously.

Angel let him go slowly. He could tell that Methos was a lot worse for wear, though he had covered it up acceptably. He had his sweater on and his complexion was only somewhat pallid. "Well, if I wasn't already dead I would have had a heart attack when you jumped off the roof like that." He turned and picked up their coats from the floor. He passed Methos his. "Give a guy a little warning next time." Angel shook his head and sighed.

"Would you have believed me if I had told you that I was immortal and that I'd be okay? Would you have let me get on the roof or would you have wasted a lot of time arguing with me?"

"Well . . ."

"Exactly my point. Time seemed to be of the essence." Methos raised a finger and lightly tapped Angel's nose. "I'm sorry if I shocked you."

"Immortal?" Angel asked.

"Yep."

"So that comment about being a 5000 year old man . . . that was true?"

"Yep."

Methos grabbed his arm and tugged gently. "Let's go."

"Go where?" Angel had been so relieved to see Methos and so happy to be out of the elevator that he had not spared a moment to consider what needed to be done next. He felt a whole world of possibilities open up before him.

"Do you always ask this many questions?" Methos said laughingly. "To my apartment. I live here. In one of the penthouses."

"You live here?" Angel was impressed. Methos must be rather well off if he could afford to live in Promenade—and in a penthouse, too.

"There you go with the questions again. I will explain all, grasshopper. Don't you worry."

The tug on Angel's arm became a little more insistent. They started walking down the corridor. "But . . ."

"Oh, I forgot." Methos spun around, walking backwards and grinning at Angel impishly. "Are you a stickler for formalities?"

Angel was confused. "Formalities?"

"Yes, formalities," Methos said. "Can I have the pleasure of your company? We can go to my apartment, get cleaned up, talk, relax, spend Christmas together." He grinned. "I know it's short notice, and an attractive guy like yourself is probably very busy, but I'd be honored if you would say yes." Methos turned around and started to walk off.

Angel paused a moment in consternation. _Guess Methos didn't need an answer, or perhaps he took the answer for granted._ Angel shook his head in amazement and hurried to catch up to the immortal who was slowly widening the distance between them. Angel closed that distance with a few long strides, and the action seemed symbolic, propitious even. Angel made a small, silent Christmas wish and cast his thoughts out onto the early morning air. He wished that he and Methos would never be more than a stone's throw apart. Ever.

They walked in tandem companionably for a minute. Now that everything looked as if it was going to work out, Angel reflected on the extraordinary events of the past eight hours. Who would have believed his life could change so drastically in such a short time? Angel tilted his head to the side and glanced at Methos archly out of the corner of his eye. "You know," he said suddenly, "they say that relationships based on emotions derived from extreme circumstances never work."

"Really?" Methos answered with a laugh. "I guess we'll just have to base our relationship on sex then," he said reasonably and with a shrug of a shoulder.

Angel pretended to think about it for a moment then grinned lasciviously. "I guess so."

But then he realized that they were making their way down a hall that terminated in a bank of six elevators. "Wait," Angel said, coming to an abrupt halt. "The penthouse?" He was not getting into another elevator. Not even for the possibility of fucking Methos. Perhaps he could take the stairs.

"Yes, the penthouse," Methos responded calmly. "But this time I think we'll take the regular interior elevators. I hear that the glass elevator is a tourist trap."

Methos stopped and turned towards Angel, pulling him into an engulfing embrace. He captured Angel's lips possessively and pressed their bodies close. In a heartbeat, an inferno erupted in the pit of Angel's stomach and the blaze seemed to burn hotter than the sun. Any minute now, he would catch on fire, spontaneously combust from the inside out. He was suddenly, achingly hard and could feel that Methos was similarly affected. Methos pulled away and grinned, nodding suggestively towards the elevators and licking his lips slowly.

Angel looked at the elevator then he looked at Methos. The elevator . . . the possibility of fucking Methos…. The elevator . . . the very real possibility of fucking Methos…. The scale tilted.

Angel's pants were entirely too tight and he knew that he would never make it up the stairs in his condition, and besides, it would just take too long. If he took the elevator, they could be behind closed doors within ten minutes. The thought was ridiculously appealing. Quickly, he walked over to the control panel and pressed the button that called the elevator.


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter Seven_

In his mind, Angel was riding high on the back of the tempestuous west wind. Sensations teased him—the eager press of moist lips to delighted flesh; the feel of strong hands caressing taut muscles; the aching, stultifying sounds of desire; the spicy smell of lust. He felt every wild, singular sensation—felt it sharply and so much more strongly than he had ever thought to feel anything ever again. Strangely, it seemed that the whole of his prior life and his living death had been nothing but a dream, colorless and as insubstantial as candle smoke. Overwhelmed by it all, he felt he had not lived a moment before the moment he had encountered Methos.

Had he ever really lived before? Truly lived? If he had, he had never lived quite like this—so poised on the edge of a towering precipice, so hungrily from the gut of his stomach. Angel's whole world had been whittled down to two people and a mad rush of sensations. Everything else that existed in the world was merely an intrusion. When he and Methos—lips locked together and bodies entwined—stumbled out of the elevator and banged into the wall, it was like nothing. When they banged into a potted plant, it did not matter at all. When they banged into the apartment door, it was only noticeable in that the door marked their final destination.

"Wait," Methos said breathlessly, pulling away. "There is one other tenant on this floor. I don't want to scandalize the neighbors. You _are_ supposed to be my cousin." Angel raised an eyebrow and Methos grinned sheepishly. "Okay, I don't give a shit about the neighbors, but there is a nice big bed in a room on the other side of this door and all the privacy we could want. I'd much rather continue this in there. Yes?"

"Yes," Angel answered, his voice husky and hot as he placed a last, lingering kiss on Methos' mouth for good measure. Then he reluctantly took a step backwards. He mused that whomever had determined that people needed 'personal space' had obviously never met anyone as delectable as Methos. The taste of him was indescribable and as irresistible as laughter, and Angel's heart screamed that there should be no space at all between them.

Methos was carrying his coat and had to take a minute to fish around in the pockets for his keys. He found them and turned to open the door to his apartment, but the temptation to touch him again was more than Angel could resist. Abruptly, he pressed himself close to Methos back, ground his straining erection against his buttocks and whispered fiercely in his ear, "I want you . . . Methos . . ."

Methos sighed and his fingers fumbled with the keys. "At this rate we're never going to get inside," he admonished lightly.

 _Finally!_ The door swung open. Methos stepped across the threshold and strolled into the apartment easily, his long legs taking him halfway through the foyer before he realized something was wrong. Feeling cool air against his back where just a moment before there had been heat and solid maleness, Methos turned and looked behind him at Angel who was still standing in the hallway. "Are you going to stand out there all day?" he asked facetiously.

Angel raised a hand and pressed the palm flatly against the invisible barrier that barred his entry into the apartment. "You have to invite me in," he replied apologetically.

Methos' face broke out into a sly grin. "You mean you're stuck out there until I invite you in?" He bit his lip and said brightly, "Now this is an opportunity too good to pass up!" To Angel's surprise, Methos started to move slowly, suggestively, glancing over his shoulder at Angel from time to time. He dropped his coat on the floor with a muffled thud.

"I guess this is the ultimate 'look but don't touch' situation," he said to Angel with mock sympathy, but his eyes sparkled as he negligently kicked off his sneakers. "You know, Angel," he said casually, "I kind of got the feeling that you were not quite hot enough for my body. I mean, you were hot," Methos pulled his sweater over his head and flung it into the apartment, "but I want you to be begging for it." Looking at Angel intently, he moved within three feet of the doorway and stopped. Methos slid his hand over his bulging erection and slowly unbuttoned the top button of his jeans. "Do you know how to beg, Angel?" Methos was grinning at him ferociously.

Flustered, Angel watched Methos in amazement. His muscles were wound as tight as a spring, and he stood, pressed against the barrier as if straining to throw himself off the edge of a cliff. "Methos . . ." Angel groaned, shifting from foot to foot in agitation, trying desperately to find more room in his pants for an erection that was so big and so hard it actually hurt to stand still. He was going to _kill_ Methos when he got his hands on him—or better yet, fuck him senseless.

"I like that pleading tone," Methos said encouragingly, "but it's not quite what I need to hear." He unbuttoned the second button on his jeans slowly, suggestively, then turned his back and walked away, into the apartment. He disappeared for a good three minutes.

"Methos!" Angel called out in confusion. Surely, Methos was not going to leave him out here! Angel heard Methos' voice ring out from inside the apartment.

"You want me?" he called out innocently.

"Get back over here and invite me in!" Angel shouted in frustration.

"You're so uptight," Methos said calmly as he reappeared in the hallway. He walked towards Angel slowly, with the lazy, indolent grace of a tiger. He stopped an arm's length from the open door and undid another button of his jeans. His hand played lightly over his chest, his stomach, the opening in his pants.

The slow movement of that hand mesmerized Angel. His eyes devoured everything about Methos—the sexy way he stood there, his intangible, hypnotizing aura. This was really the first time that Angel had the opportunity to enjoy an unimpeded look at the entire package without the distracting press of circumstances, and to his eyes, Methos was marvelous.

The immortal was wearing black jeans that hugged his masculine curves closely, like a comfortable second skin. Of course, his pants were enticingly open, and Angel could see the hard outline of Methos' erection clearly. His T-shirt was heather gray but Angel could see that the shirt had been stained in places with dried blood. His conscience gave a guilty start, realizing that the fall from the elevator must have been more traumatic than had been readily apparent. He continued his ravenous inspection.

His skin—it was so pale! And his neck! It was long, and graceful, and Angel shivered at the thought of licking, sucking, biting—exposing the vein there. Methos' hair was short and tousled, endearingly sticking up in places. Angel drew in a quick breath and his nostrils flared. His scent! It called to the hunter in him. Methos smelled faintly of desert sand, of sweet resin and the shadows of night, of some unidentified perfumed oil that smelled, all at once, old and new. The scent was unique and intoxicating. Methos was beauty redefined, and Angel's hands itched to touch him. He pressed himself futilely against the invisible barrier.

"I asked you a question," Methos said seriously as he toed his socks off and kicked them out of the way. His eyes flashed at Angel, bright, arrogant, and thoroughly insouciant.

"You did?" Angel licked his lips. His mouth—it was so dry! It was as if the whole of the Sahara desert lay on his tongue.

"I did." Methos paused and then casually pulled his t-shirt over his head.

The brightness of white skin struck Angel like a bolt of lightning and he caught his breath sharply. His eyes devoured every finely delineated muscle with a fierce, possessive gaze that hungered. He noted in wonder that Methos had not a mark on him to call to mind his recent ordeal. He was like an angel—beautiful, untouched and untouchable.

"Do you want me?" Methos whispered, his voice dark and low, shadowed with possibilities. He let the shirt fall to the floor.

Angel nodded his head in assent and scared up just enough moisture in his mouth to answer, "Yes," with a fervency that was almost reverential.

"Good. I want you, too, you know." Slowly Methos walked around the foyer dragging Angel's eyes with him like child with a little red wagon. "That first time you kissed me," he stopped and unbuttoned the last two buttons on the front of his jeans, "I knew we would be here, like this." He put a hand on his chest, ran his palm across its naked expanse, trailed a thumb in small circular motions around his taut nipples and then, finally, hooked both thumbs in his waistband and pushed his jeans down over slim hips and off.

"The taste of your mouth," he continued, his voice hypnotically dark, "it was like nothing I had ever tasted before, and when you wrapped your lips around my cock in that elevator," he looked at Angel intently, standing in gray, thigh hugging, three-quarter length, sport briefs, "all I wanted to do was fuck you senseless. If you hadn't passed out I would have—I had no control. I lost it the first time you touched me." He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs and slowly, sensuously, pushed them down and let them fall to the floor. His cock sprang up and out, standing happily at attention. Methos paused there, gloriously naked. He turned around slowly for Angel's mute inspection.

"Methos . . ." Angel pressed his body against the barrier. He felt like screaming. The sight, the sound, the smell of it all was enough to drive him mad. It was torture, sweet and subtle. Would the man never let him in?

"But I want you to beg for it," Methos said slowly as his tongue darted out of his open mouth and flickered enticingly over his lips. "I want to know how much you want it." His hand hovered just over his straining erection.

"Methos, please . . ." Angel groaned. "Dammit Methos! Invite me in!"

"Come in," Methos called out, his voice throaty, amused. He turned his back on Angel and walked further into the apartment.

But he didn't get far. The door slam shut about two seconds before Angel tackled him from behind. They both fell, sprawling on a tasteful area rug. Angel made sure that he landed on top, after all, what good was his extraordinary strength if not for this? He turned Methos over—though the view from behind was positively riveting—and pinned his arms to the floor.

"So, you like to tease?" He murmured against Methos' mouth and kissed him briefly, fiercely, with a hot possessiveness that promised more rarefied pleasures to come. "It's not a good idea to tease a vampire and then invite him into your home. The consequences could be dire," Angel growled, his face close to Methos' ear. Then he started to tickle him.

Methos put up a token struggle but it was rather impossible for him to marshal his strength. He was laughing hysterically and Angel was sitting on his stomach, holding him down and grinning like a fool. Finally, Angel let him catch his breath.

Looking down at Methos as he grinned and panted for air, Angel was momentarily bemused by the man's dancing eyes. They twinkled at him endearingly with suppressed mirth and colorful happiness. Even though the apartment was shadowy, Angel could see fire in those eyes, and gold and silver, and the moon and all the stars. Even the sun was there, burning, and all the possibilities of an endless love.

"How did this happen?" Angel asked him, suddenly curious. He acknowledged the utter implausibility of the two of them being together, plainly disregarding all of the ordinary details that would circumscribe a new relationship between ordinary people. It was almost as if he and Methos had created another world, a world where only the two of them existed, a place where time had no meaning, where every moment was stretched to infinity and everything ran on non-time; where the only important thing between the two of them was truth—the absolute truth of feelings rooted in the heart, rooted in the soul. But how long could they really hope to exist in such a place? Was there food in this new world, and water? Did their special place contain all that the two of them needed to exist? Could this new world sustain a vampire? _Was there blood enough?_

These thoughts concerned Angel, descended upon him like a dark cloud, and he pulled back slightly. "I don't know how this happened," he said again. "You don't know me. I don't know you."

"What do I need to know?" Methos parried, his eyes dismissing Angel's unspoken concerns. "When you've lived as long as I have, you get to be a pretty good judge of people. Believe it or not, I picked up all the essentials about you right away. A friend of mine liked to say, _'So, through the eyes love attains the heart / For the eyes are the scouts of the heart / And the eyes go reconnoitering / For what it would please the heart to possess'."_ Methos grinned at Angel slyly. "Or something like that."

Then he continued more seriously, "I have loved many women and some few men," and Angel's heart sank like a stone into the pit of his stomach at the mention of _others,_ even if those others had been loved by Methos at some time in the past, "I understand better than most that things happen, sometimes inexplicably. Also, I know what I want when I see it. I do not feel the need to conform to modern conventions. Then, of course," he bit his lip to suppress a smile and shrugged a shoulder, "I'm immortal. I can survive a bit of wildness."

"But I'm a vampire," Angel countered. "Are you sure you want this?" Was Methos sure? Angel needed him to be sure. It had become important to Angel to know that Methos understood the complexity of his existence. Angel did not think he could bear to have Mathos change his mind. The time for reconsideration was now, before they went any further.

Methos considered the question with some care. At length, he answered it. "Yes, I'm sure," he said decisively. "Would you believe me if I told you that your being a vampire does not matter to me in the least?" He looked at Angel speculatively. "Well, it doesn't matter to me—for many reasons. I have my own checkered past. I have been known as the worst sort of demon and have proven that accusation true a thousand times over. I could ask you if you mind getting involved with an Immortal who has lived over 5000 years. That concern is just as relevant as any concern I might have about you being a vampire." Methos paused and smiled at Angel, and that smile was wondrously fond.

"We could take a few hours, right now, and I could tell you all about myself and explain what bothers me and what doesn't bother me, but I'd rather show you exactly how I feel." He squirmed a little to remind Angel that he was still sitting on him. "But to do that, we need to even the power balance, and one of us has entirely too much clothing on," Methos said pointedly. His eyes bored into Angel's soul like a drill.

His concerns addressed, Angel did not spare a moment's thought. He jumped up, pulled his sweater and T-shirt over his head, kicked his shoes across the room, unbuttoned his pants quickly and pulled them off. In the space of a minute, he stood over Methos in all his glorious nakedness. Methos put his hands behind his head and just looked at him for a long moment. Then Angel extended a hand. Methos grasped it and was quickly pulled to his feet and into Angel's waiting arms.

Their coming together was like a clash of titans, like the roar of an avalanche, like the thunder of the river emptying itself into the sea. Two naked bodies were plastered together, sweaty and taut with passion. Angel felt Methos' arousal as hotly, tightly, as vividly as he felt his own.

"Bedroom," Methos said huskily and pulled back with reluctance.

"But shouldn't we talk—"

"Bedroom now, talk later," Methos interrupted, turning and pulling Angel to him so that Angel's front was plastered to his back.

They moved in tandem towards a closed door that Angel assumed led to the bedroom. They stopped in front of it. "Wait here a minute," Methos said, pulling away. "I have to draw the curtains." He grinned. "It's very important to practice safe sex. I like my vampires hot . . . but not crispy." He laughed and let himself into the bedroom. A few endless minutes later, Angel heard Methos call out for him and he pushed the door open slowly.

A large bed dominated the room, and Methos lay sprawled across it on his back. Methos cocked a finger and motioned for Angel to come closer. Angel moved towards the bed and laid himself down on his side next to Methos. He placed a hand on Methos' stomach and simply rested there, like a ship at dock, with his face pressed to Methos' neck, breathing in his scent. Angel brought his lips close to his ear. He had something to say. Sure, they would talk everything out later but right now, he wanted Methos to know something. It was important and needed utterance before they went any further. He whispered, "I don't know how this happened. I don't know why . . . but I feel . . . I think I love you. I know I do."

All of a sudden, Methos was on top of him. Angel was not sure how he had managed it but Methos straddled his stomach, leaned over him and said with a grin, "Good, because you're not going to get rid of me easily. You practically married me in that elevator." He raised his left hand and shook it so that the bracelet wrapped around his wrist twirled in emphasis. "And married people have certain obligations." He licked his lips lasciviously. "I want to exercise all my rights and all my privileges." He leaned in and captured Angel's mouth gently. "And then, of course," he murmured against Angel's lips, "there's the fact that this bracelet doesn't come off . . . You did know that didn't you?" Methos sat back and raised an eyebrow archly.

 _It doesn't come off?_ Angel raised his wrist in astonishment. He examined the bracelet quickly. The latch seemed to have disappeared. He pulled on it. _There was no way to get the bracelet off!_ He was going to kill Cordelia!

"I'm sorry," Angel said quickly. "I didn't know. Really. I would never have—"

Methos put a finger to his lips to stop the hastily offered words. "Don't worry about it," he said softly. "It's a beautiful bracelet. I won't mind wearing it. It will remind me of you. I just guess we're stuck with each other—if that's what you want."

In answer, Angel pulled him down into an embrace and captured his mouth with all the suppressed hunger of a starving man.

Time seemed to pass but Angel couldn't tell how much or how little. Nothing mattered except the press of their two bodies, one to the other. The whole of the world was an insubstantial place, and everything in it immaterial. Except for Methos. Except for him. Nothing registered with Angel's fevered mind except the heat of their dueling erections, twin penises lying delightfully trapped between their bellies and quivering uncontrollably. Angel existed in a world without words, a world of the senses. Methos sucked on his tongue gently and Angel thought instantly, _Roses,_ and felt them bloom inside his head. Methos passed a hand along his flank in a whispering caress and Angel thought, _Childhood,_ and he was there again.

Then Methos shimmied down the length of him, flipped himself over so that his feet were by Angel's head and took Angel's erection slowly into his mouth. After the first incredible rush of sensations subsided, Angel did the same for him.

They licked simultaneously, gently and languorously teasing each other to desperation. The sweet, salty taste of skin, the moist, tickling warmth of tongue assaulted them both. Angel strained as he tried to engulf Methos' length, as if he could consume it all, take all of Methos into himself. He wanted to give back to Methos every one of the delicious sensations that Methos was creating in him. No other cheeks or tongue or lips had ever understood so instinctively what he liked. Angel thought that Methos likewise appreciated his efforts—the joy Methos took from his own ministrations was evident from the drops of sweet liquor that dripped and coated his tongue.

They were both on the edge of a towering precipice. Intuitively, simultaneously, they both stopped. Angel pulled Methos up and hugged him to his chest. "Dammit," he whispered with his face pressed to the juncture of Methos' neck, "you feel so good. I can't get enough of you." Angel groaned hotly. "I want to taste you . . ."

"Go ahead," Methos said, turning his face and whispering softly in his ear.

Angel froze. "No." He pulled away.

"Why not?" Methos asked gently. "I don't need you to be anything other than what you are. I'm immortal. I can do this for you. I want to."

Angel closed his eyes, refused to see the love, the acceptance that was so clearly present in his lover's warm gaze. "No," he said again. He would not do this. No matter how much he wanted to.

"Angel," Methos said slowly and brought a hand up to touch his face lightly. The caress was like a benediction and seemed to find all the sharp planes of his face. Angel felt as if his whole body was laved in the sweetest sensation, even to the tips of his toes. "You don't need to be ashamed of who you are with me," Methos said quietly, intently, his dark eyes boring into Angel. "Do you suppose that I would think less of you because you drink blood? Very little turns my stomach. I remember when kissing was considered taboo—and French kissing?" He chuckled. "Forget about it. Not to mention oral sex, or swallowing cum, for that matter. In fact, I have tasted more than my fair share of blood over the years. You are what you are. You need blood to survive. Some people will look on you with disgust for that reason, but I never will. I can do this for you. I want to do this."

But Angel was not convinced and Methos could read the reluctance in his eyes. "Wait here," he said suddenly. Methos rose from the bed and disappeared into the outer room. When he came back, he had, what looked to Angel to be, an eight-inch ornamental blade in one hand.

"What's that for?" Angel asked curiously.

"Just trust me," Methos replied as he climbed back onto the bed and extended the blade to Angel for his inspection.

Angel looked at the weapon in amazement. It seemed that Immortals, like vampires, tended to have a cache of weaponry around the house, or at least, Methos did. Strangely, the blade seemed to be made of bronze. Angel passed it back to Methos, curious as to why he had retrieved the knife in the first place.

"Angel," Methos said seriously, "we can make a promise to each other right now. I can promise to provide you with what you need to survive and you can promise me the same. For as long as we choose to remain together." Methos looked to Angel for assent. Angel gave a small, hesitant nod in response. Angel was not unsure about the sentiment—not at all. He would have made Methos any promise that he required gladly. He was just unsure of what Methos intended to do next. Angel had come to realize that his lover was a bit rash.

Gently, Methos captured Angel's hand in his, turned the wrist over and made a cut, swift and sure. A thin line of scarlet broke the surface colorfully, like a potter's vermilion. To Angel's shocked amazement, Methos put his mouth to that thread and sucked gently.

Angel felt his soul tremble. Clearly, Methos thought that his blood could not turn him into a vampire, and Angel was not prepared to argue—everything was happening so fast. Angel did know one thing for sure: Watching Methos suck at his wrist—it was erotic, hypnotic, and Angel felt fevered. His resistance faltered, then crumbled entirely.

Methos raised his head, shifted to lay the knife on the nightstand. Then he reached out and pulled Angel to the juncture of his shoulder and neck. "Drink," he commanded in a tone that brooked no argument.

 _Are you sure?_ Angel's eyes asked this and more, but he found only love, only gentle acceptance when he searched his lover's face. This man, this immortal man, had given him so much already—happiness, love. Methos had saved his undead life, all in a day, all in a few scant hours. What could he not do? Suddenly, Angel realized the truth that had eluded his grasp earlier. How had this happened? Why now? Why Methos? The truth was that this special moment was happening because it was supposed to happen.

Angel realized with a leap of intuition that his soul—the soul that had so often been held hostage—knew all things and everything. A soul knows the future as well as the past, for time has no meaning in the transmigration of a soul. The soul knows only what should be, and it always recognizes its own. Angel could see clearly that despite time or knowledge or modern convention, Methos belonged to him. He saw clearly why he had recognized him from the first.

And Angel felt such a suffusion of passionate love for the man sitting on the bed in front of him that every other feeling he had ever known paled in comparison. Methos was like the sun, like the fire that had set his heart aflame, and Angel was willing to promise him anything just to bathe in the light of his love. "Forever, Methos," he whispered as his face changed and he allowed his demon side to rise to the surface. "For as long as you want me. For as long as we both shall exist on this earth," he said softly.

Angel put a hand to his cheek and entangled his fingers in the soft down of his hair. He drew Methos to him slowly and lowered his head to his long expanse of neck. As Angel nuzzled there, as he kissed and licked and sucked at the vein in his neck, calling it to the surface, he paused briefly, to reassure his love. "Don't be afraid," Angel whispered hotly, his lips close, so close to Methos' ear.

"I'm not afraid."

"I won't hurt you," Angel said gently, lovingly, as he lowered his head to make the mark, to draw the blood. "And if I do, _forgive me."_

Then Angel was swimming strongly in a sea of ecstasy, hazy and red. Methos was like the water, drowning all of his dry places, the base unit he needed to exist. Angel dipped into him like a bucket into a wishing well. He dived into him and was refreshed.

Slowly, carefully, Angel pulled back. As he felt Methos' heart begin to stutter, as he felt life flicker and begin to fade, he pulled back. Somehow, he found enough control to take what was necessary and no more. He would not hurt Methos needlessly. He would not kill him to feed his own gluttony. Methos was his love, and if love was to flourish between an Immortal and a vampire, if their relationship was to be equal and not parasitical, if they were to be to each other everything that was needed and more, a careful pairing was required—a creation of partners who could permit in love what could never be permitted in hate or in greed.

Methos' eyelids fluttered as Angel laid him back on the bed gently. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly while smoothing his hair from his face.

"I will be. In a few minutes."

Angel lowered himself next to Methos, pulled him over so that Methos was cradled protectively in his arms with his head on his chest. "I love you, Methos." Angel said quietly. "I love you."

He felt Methos smile, felt the resonance of it in his own soul although he could not see his lover's face. "And I, you," Methos answered as his hand snaked down Angel's body to softly brush a thigh and to awaken the quiescent part of him that lay sleeping there. All Angel could do was shake his head and smile at the wonder of Immortal healing.

They made love with the passionate heat of hunters, killers, warriors born, but it was not a quick thing. Ecstasy was cultivated slowly, harvested like honey, and it was always near. It came and went, came and went, swelling, singing, widening—never finished, never begun. Human words were impossible. The rational arrangement of syllables could not contain their rapture. Voices cried out primitively, grunting and moaning, rising and falling, until exhausted silence fell.

But the echoes—the echoes of their lovemaking persisted stubbornly.


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter Eight_

The phone was ringing. Angel recognized the tone remotely as from the midst of a cloudbank. It sounded like his cell phone. He opened his eyes slowly, felt the delicious pressure of a head resting heavily on his chest, an arm draped around his waist. _Methos._ Angel extracted an arm from their tangle of bodies and used it to run his fingers lightly, in adoration, down the side of the man's face and around his neck. He tangled his fingers in his lover's hair. Absently, disgustedly, he realized that his phone was still ringing.

With a sigh of exasperation, he removed his hand from Methos' hair and shifted to stretch his body and his arm to reach the nightstand on his side of the bed where he had left an assortment of things: His spare change, his wallet, his cell phone—which was somewhat battered but, unfortunately, still working. He snatched the phone off the table knocking the wallet and change to the floor in the process. Angel was distressed that the noise had disturbed Methos. A lone eyelid had opened and watched him lazily. "Hello," Angel said into the phone, annoyance coloring his tone with hazy streaks.

"Cordelia." Angel listened distractedly while Cordelia lit into him for leaving the party without telling her; for getting Wesley drunk; for not calling and letting her know that he was alright; for a whole multitude of transgressions that, from the way she was making it seem, were enough to establish him as a permanent resident of the seventh ring of hell. But Methos had awakened and he was licking the indenture of Angel's belly button and taking small nibbles of flesh. His hands . . . they were everywhere, and Angel could not concentrate, could not think to form a coherent sentence. _What in the world did Cordelia want?_

And then Methos took his game to another level.

"Oh, God!" An involuntary, ecstatic exclamation exploded from Angel's lungs. He took his free hand and laced it through Methos' hair, pulling his head closer, encouraging him to faster and more effort.

Angel realized that Cordelia was saying something. She wanted to know where he was and what was wrong.

"Oh God!" he moaned. He realized suddenly how that sounded. All he needed was to have Cordelia realize what he was doing, that he wasn't alone. She would insist on meeting Methos to check him out. "My . . . head. It's throbbing," he said into the phone lamely. Methos burst into laughter and Angel waved a hand at him urgently to get him to be quiet. Methos did just that, and the way he chose to occupy his mouth made Angel gasp for breath.

"Cordelia," he said into the phone urgently, "I have a splitting headache. I think I have the flu, or something . . . Yes, dead people get sick. I just said I was sick, didn't I?" Angel was beyond frustrated. His hand gripped the sheets convulsively and his hips raised themselves off the bed involuntarily. He had to get Cordelia off the phone!

"Listen, Cordy," he said in as reasonable a tone as he could manage, "I'm going to stay in bed this week. Why don't you and Wesley take the week off—with pay. Go on vacation. Enjoy yourself." Angel hurriedly assured Cordelia that he would be fine.

Not to be put off, she wanted to know what was going on, what was wrong and why he wasn't at the hotel. _Good God,_ Angel groaned silently. _Would the girl never stop talking?_ He cut her off, "Listen, I have to go. Have a nice vacation. See you next week." Angel pressed the end button and threw the phone on the floor.

"Methos . . . _Damn,"_ he said huskily as he pulled the man up the length of his body so that he was laying on top of him, body pressed against body. He claimed his lover's mouth fiercely and for a long while, the only sounds Angel could make were low moans—groans of ecstasy deep and low in his throat to accentuate the keenest pleasure.

"Methos . . ." Angel whispered as he pushed him gently down the length of his body. "Again . . ."

"Magic word . . ."

"Please . . ." Angel caught his breath sharply. _Yes!_


	10. Chapter 10

_Epilogue_

There have been times in my life when my age has pressed heavily upon me. There have been days, years even, when I could find no reason to go on living—there was nothing new to see, nothing new to experience, nothing new to read. There came a time when I found that every book I took to hand had been written before; that there existed in the dry pages of thousands of seemingly new books only the pretense to novelty. There came a day when I knew despair, when I believed deeply that I would neither see nor accomplish anything new in life. And on that day, my heart withdrew from the world of mortals and I lived as a ghost of myself. I lived as a soul adrift.

But my life changed that Christmas Day in a glass elevator in the year 2000. Irrevocably, irretrievably changed. I tried to share with you what happened, to show you through the impersonal intimation of words on paper how it was between us on that first day, knowing that my words would be wholly inadequate to convey the depth of the feelings that took root so suddenly and so deeply in the soil of our souls. Words have always been inadequate. _My love is like a madly rushing river, drawn inexorably to the ocean._ He is my ocean, and I know that my modest fire is kept alight at his altar.

How? Why? Many have doubted my sanity. Some few have ridiculed me for choosing him. "He is a vampire!" they protest. "He feeds on your blood!" they argue. They claim he is not even human. I can only laugh.

For what is this thing called human? Of what is it comprised? And the state of existing is one's humanity—how do you qualify for such a thing? Must you breathe? Must the heart beat? To be called human, must you think and feel and speak a cognizable human language? What is it to be human _exactly?_ I have always thought that humanity denotes the ability to love and hate on the highest levels—but most importantly love. Your humanity lives in your ability to know love to the depth and breadth of your being. After more than 5,800 years, I have seen much of humanity and know this to be true.

Angel was human a long time ago, and now, he is human again through his love for me and his unselfish love for those he helps. He is human because he loves, wholly, unselfishly, and with every fiber of his being. I tell you this is true of him because I have known him longer than any other person still living on this earth—and I know him well. Yes, he is a vampire. He is a vampire with a soul who loves greatly and is greatly loved, and because of love, he is human—as human as you or I. Thus is the prophecy fulfilled.

I have been many places over the course of my life. I have seen many things, known many people. I have relished many words. I have raised my hand and people have bowed before me and called me _god._ I have been slave, beggar, warrior, priest. I have been teacher and student. I have been Death. But of all the things I have done and been and seen, I have never in my long life loved like this.

So, to all those who persist in casting aspersions, let me speak plainly: Never have I met his equal. There is no one in the world like him, and I love him more than my own life. I am the Immortal that many have called the ultimate survivor, and I say that I shall not live one moment past the moment that the Powers That Be call him from this life. I will go where he goes. Always. I would have it no other way.

See him lying over there in our bed? So quiet, so peaceful? Our hearts are one and the same, though mine beats and his does not. Many things have happened over the years but our hearts, our hearts have never varied. Believe me when I tell you that we dream the same dreams. I hear his thoughts. They are my own. He will wake soon and call for me.

"Methos."

His voice is lazy with sleep and I can only smile. No one says my name the way he does. "Yes, love," I answer quietly. I am sitting at my desk, writing, as I often do.

"Come back to bed. You know I can't sleep without you here."

"I know, love. I'll be right there," I say as I straighten my papers and turn off the desk light.

I go to him and look down at his sleepy face. His eyes are closed and his hand is reaching out, searching for the feel of me. I take a moment to study his face in the dim light—faithful, still, unchanging—the beautiful face of my beloved. Satiated, I climb into bed. I pull the covers over us both and press my body close to his side. My arm snakes around his waist as I bury my face in his neck. "Happy Anniversary, Angel," I whisper softly in his ear. It's Christmas Day.

"Another year?" His chuckle is like the rumbling thunder, deep and low in his throat. He opens his eyes and gazes at me seriously. "It seems like only yesterday that you seduced me in that elevator."

He thinks he's funny and that requires me to hit him over the head with a pillow. "I seduced you? Get a grip! Try, it seems like only yesterday that you attacked me and shackled me to you. You should have just tattooed your name across my arse!" I shake my wrist and my beautiful bracelet catches what little light there is in the room. Angel knows I am just being facetious. I would not be parted from this bracelet for anything in the world.

"That bracelet is your penance—to teach you not to take advantage of drunken strangers who are a mere fraction of your age, you dirty old man." He pulls me to him. "Besides," he whispers, lips pressed against the side of my neck, "that bracelet means that I can always find you, my ancient love. Your heart belongs to me and I will never give it up."

We kiss. Our bodies mold, one to the other, comfortably. Familiar passion erupts. The same exquisite heat that has been with us from the first, and I expect that this perfect reflection of our passionate love will exist until the end of time. Even after our lives on this earth are over, some memory of it will go on and on and on, past me, past him and into eternity as all great loves do.

It has been said that we inhabit time but remember only eternal moments. Perhaps that is why the memory of our love persists so tenaciously. Every moment that we have shared is eternal. We've spent so many lifetimes together. Forever passes with every glance, every faint exhalation of breath—every time we touch. We have forever in every minute, every second of every day.

"I love you, Methos," he says to me softly. "I have always loved you . . . from the first moment we met."

"And I, you, beloved." _And I, you._

Friends, I ask a favor. Through this indolent arrangement of measured words, I speak to you. When you have lost hope; when it seems that there is nothing new nor good nor right in life; when it feels as if the whole world is aligned against you; when you think that you will never find the one person who is willing to stand by your side; remember that life is a series of inexplicable miracles. Look for love—it can be found in the strangest of places. Do not be afraid to step off that precipice. Remember, the soul knows all things. Remember, the soul recognizes its own.

 _finis_


End file.
